Bucky's wife

There were eight cells in ESH. Eight beautiful little boxes built with reinforced doors, observation panels, pressure sensors, thermal cameras, anti-ligature fixtures, shatterproof windows, and enough cameras to make privacy feel like a fairy tale told to a child.

Dex had seen the brochure when one of the guards had left paperwork too close to his cell during intake, and Dex had read it upside down through a reflection in the polished floor.

It was made for “high-risk enhanced detainees” with “special containment protocols” and “behavioural isolation.”

Cute.

The problem was, there were no other enhanced detainees. After all, not every day did somebody with a weird little gift or near-superhuman talent get arrested in New York. Not every day did someone land in Rikers with enough justification of being locked in a concrete aquarium, and half of them were in the supermax across the country, and the other half was in The Raft.  

So it was just Dex. 

Eight cells, seven empty. A whole hallway built for monsters, and only one monster inside it.

It was isolating, sure. But it was fine. There were worse places to be in the world. Maybe. Meh.

Rikers still had a rhythm. Even the ESH had one, if you were trapped long enough to learn it. He learned that the lights dimmed but never went fully off and guards passed every twelve minutes unless the night shift was bored, then every nine. The vents clicked twice before the air shifted temperature. Camera four made the smallest electric whine when it adjusted focus. Guard Velasquez dragged his left foot when he was tired and guard Miller breathed through his mouth and smelled like cheap coffee.

Dex knew all of it, and it helped with the silence creeping in sometimes. 

The silence was the worst part, probably, not the restraints. Not even the meals so bland they felt punitive on a spiritual level. 

This type of silence made his thoughts louder and made the walls seem closer at night, when he lay on the thin mattress with his hands folded over his stomach, staring at the ceiling like the ceiling might someday blink first.

Sometimes he thought about Foggy Nelson, but not in the way people probably wanted him to. He didn’t feel guilty; he did what he thought he had to do. He thought about that chapter in his life like a splinter under skin– impossible to forget without digging too deep and making it worse.

Sometimes he thought about Fisk. Sometimes he thought about his spine. Sometimes he thought about how easy it would be, if someone made one mistake.

Just one.

If someone would just accidentally give him the wrong set of cuffs. If a new guard would just be standing too close to the bars with his badge clipped to the wrong side of his belt.

But no one had made a mistake. Yet. 

Then, in the middle of June, in the middle of the night, the hallway suddenly erupted.

The far door opened with a metallic groan, then another. Buzz. door one. Buzz. door two. Buzz. door three.

Eventually, boots flooded the corridor, and Dex counted twenty guards. Maybe more.

He could hear the metallic clangs of rifles and the plastic bounce of shields as static popping over radios. A guard whispered., “Keep moving,” like whatever they were escorting might change its mind if they hesitated.

Dex sat up.

The lights snapped brighter overhead, white and ugly, turning his cell blind at the edges.

He didn't move to the door. He stayed on the bed, head tilted slightly, listening.

There was a slightly smaller set footsteps beneath all the others.

This one must be the prisoner. It dragged, but not fighting. Perhaps this person was sedated? No. There was a little bit of struggle. Maybe they weren’t sedated enough. Whoever it was kept resisting the pace without ever fully stopping.

Metal clinked as someone cursed under their breath.

Then came a sound like fabric straining, and he could tell it was heavy fabric. Then, he heard thick restraints being adjusted. Not ordinary cuffs, and definitely not a chain.

Dex tilted his head. Interesting.

The procession stopped in front of the cell next to his.

The guards shifted around the door, blocking his view through the narrow panel in his own cell. He caught pieces of you, though nothing whole. He could see a bit of your hair, and the corner of something white and reinforced strapped across your torso. Your rikers-issued shoes were planted firmly against the floor, like you were refusing to be placed anywhere by anyone.

One of the guards knocked twice on Dex’s door with his baton. “Got a neighbor now, Poindexter.”

Dex looked at him.

The guard smiled like he’d said something funny, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. In fact, none of them looked relaxed.  

Tonight, they were not afraid of Dex. They were afraid of you.

The door to Cell Two opened and they moved you inside.

You didn't scream, threaten, or beg, even if you were half-awake.

Weird, Dex thought, people usually did one of the three when they arrived in a place like this.

You were shoved past the threshold in silence, and the guards backed out fast. The door shut with a brutal final sound, locks engaging one after another, heavy and layered and unnecessarily dramatic. A guard gave an all-clear over the radio. Another laughed once, shakily, then stopped abruptly when nobody joined in.

Dex stayed very still as the guards filed out, one by one, until the hallway swallowed their footsteps one by one.

Eight cells, two occupied.

For the first time in five months, Dex was not alone.

He waited for you to make a sound, but he couldn't hear any noise, not even crying from the next cell. You weren’t pacing, like he did on the first night, and you barely even rattled whatever restraints they put on you. Most notable, you didn’t even attempt to make contact through the wall.

Dex stared at the wall between his cell and yours: solid concrete, thick enough that he shouldn't have been able to feel anything through it.

He did, though he didn’t know how to explain it. The only measurable metric was that somehow the room had felt cooler than it had been an hour ago.

He lay back down eventually.

From the other side of the wall, you still said nothing, no sound at all except the occasional shift of fabric and once, very quietly, an exhale through your teeth.

Dex almost smiled. That’s when he saw the window.

At first, he thought the glass had caught the overhead light strangely. ESH windows were narrow, reinforced slits. You could see a suggestion of the sky if you stood at the right angle, but mostly you saw the garden roses and your own reflection staring back like a bad idea.

Tonight, the glass was… clouding.

What?

Dex sat up again.

A thin white film crept across the corner of the window, delicate and pretty. Tiny veins of frost branching outward in lacy patterns, spreading over reinforced glass that had no reason to be cold.

Why was his window frosting up in the middle of summer?

—

For the first couple of days, Dex assumed you were asleep. Or unconscious. Or dead.

It was hard to tell with the wall between you and him. Still, the guards checked on you often enough that he knew you must technically be alive, but they did it through the panel, never through the door unless there were at least six of them and one of them had the long black shock baton they liked pretending it was not a weapon.

Dex had seen criminals arrive angry. During his time in the bureau, he had seen them arrive screaming, pleading, spitting, promising lawsuits, promising revenge, promising innocence. He had seen prisoners break under silence in twelve hours and start telling the ceiling their childhood nicknames.

You did none of that. In fact, you barely moved.

That was the strangest part, not the frost, not even the straitjacket, which was still interesting in a funny way to him, because they had Dex’s hands restrained any time they opened his door like he was going to start flicking femurs through skulls, but you must be special. After all, you had arrived wrapped up like a badly behaved present.

By the second day, he started actively listening for you.

It was pathetic, maybe, but there were very few things to do in Enhanced Supervision Housing besides become intimately familiar with the sound of your own breathing and develop opinions about fluorescent lights, so a new person on the other side of the wall was not nothing.

You shifted sometimes, when he heard a small scrape of fabric against concrete. He could hear the faint clink from whatever additional restraints they had attached to the jacket. Once, your head hit the wall with a dull little thud, and Dex turned his face toward the sound before he could stop himself.

Then… nothing. Nothing but a drag of breath through your nose.

The guards did not like you either, that became obvious pretty quickly.

They liked Dex, in a way. Obviously, they didn’t like him as a person, they were not stupid. But they understood him. They had made a little mental box for him: former FBI agent turned murderer. They had rules: keep your distance, keep his hands restrained, do not let him near anything that he could throw.

You, they did not understand.

They approached your cell like prey approaching a sleeping animal in the wrong enclosure.

On the third morning, one of them brought your breakfast and stood too close to the slot.

Dex heard a soft crackle before the guard even reacted. Then the man swore and stumbled back. “What the fuck—”

“Don’t put your hand in,” another guard snapped.

“I didn’t put my hand in!”

“Then stop whining.”

“She froze my fucking fingers, man!”

Dex sat on his mattress, elbows on his knees, staring at the wall. Interesting.

Your cell stayed silent and the breakfast tray was shoved in with much less dignity after that.

Nobody asked if you were hungry. Nobody asked if you were hurt. Nobody asked if you needed the jacket loosened, even though Dex could hear the shallow and held in breath, clearly struggling for air half the time. It was as if the straps cut across your ribs and you were trying not to give anyone the satisfaction of knowing it bothered you.

By the fourth day, Dex had decided you were either extremely disciplined or extremely broken. Possibly both.

He had also decided that the silence was annoying. This was unfair, because he had hated the silence before you arrived, and now that the silence had another person inside it, he hated it more.

He tried not to care, but that only lasted until evening.

A guard walked past and muttered, “Crazy bitch still hasn’t said a word.”

Dex’s head lifted.

The guard kept walking, probably feeling very brave because there were reinforced doors and rifles between him and the consequences of being stupid.

Dex watched him go. He didn’t say anything, and neither did you.

The night after that, the frost came back, but not just on Dex’s window this time. They were crawling up the walls.

It crept from the seam where the concrete met the floor, thin and white under the dimmed lights. At first, he thought it was moisture, a product of bad ventilation and  Rikers being Rikers. Then the frost branched, crawling in little veins across the wall between your cells.

Dex got up and walked over, putting two fingers against the concrete. It was painfully cold.

On the other side of the wall, you breathed out, and frost thickened under his fingers.

Dex almost knocked. That felt ridiculous.

What was he going to do? Tap his knuckles against reinforced concrete and ask the stranger in the murder-prison next door if she was making the building colder because she was sad?

No. So he went back to bed, but did not sleep.

By day five, the guards had stopped pretending this was normal.

Maintenance came in wearing insulated gloves, and even gave Dex a thicker orange jumpsuit, even though he never minded the cold. They took temperature readings in the hallway, checked the vents, checked the windows. They argued about condensation. One of them said it was probably a system fault, and then immediately shut up when a thin line of ice crawled over his boot.

Dex enjoyed that a lot, actually. It was the first entertainment he’d had in months.

By the fifth night, Dex woke up to snow.

At first, he thought it was dust falling from the ceiling. But then a single cold snowflake landed on his cheek.

Dex blinked.

For a moment, he lay very still, staring up at the ceiling where tiny white flakes drifted down from nowhere. Another landed on his chest. Then another. Soon there were dozens, small, delicate, almost shy.

Dex sat up slowly.

The floor was beginning to powder white. His blanket had caught a fine layer of it. The air was cold enough now that his breath was visible.

He looked toward the wall, and for the first time in five days, he spoke to you. “You doing this, neighbor?”

Nothing but silence.

Dex waited.

The hallway outside was quiet, which meant either the guards had not noticed yet or they were all standing very still pretending they had not noticed yet. Dex watched snow gather on the toes of his prison-issued socks.

Then, from the other side of the wall, there was the faintest shift.

And then your voice, rough from disuse. You sounded almost… bored. “...mmhm.”

Dex’s mouth curved up.  Ah. She speaks. 

He leaned back against the wall, feeling the cold bite through the cotton of his shirt. “Should I be concerned?”

Then, barely louder than before, you said, “Probably.”

Dex laughed once under his breath.

His own sound surprised him, because it sounded wrong in the cell. Too human then he had ever been.

The snow kept drifting down. It should have made him uneasy. It should have made him think about containment failures and emergency protocols and what the guards might do if the whole unit iced over. Instead, Dex sat there with his shoulder pressed to the wall between you, watching winter collect in his lap.

“Good to know,” he said.

You didn’t answer. But a few seconds later, the snow slowed down.

—

After that, Dex learned how to read you. It was not subtle, once he understood what he was looking at.

When you were sad, you were cold so it made sense that in the first month, it snowed almost every day.

You barely spoke during those days, you barely even moved.

The guards asked questions through your door and received nothing but silence. The nurses came by with clipboards, asking if you had eaten, if you were injured, if you needed medical attention, if you understood where you were. You gave them nothing.

Sometimes, actual ice sealed your food slot shut. Snow collected in the corners of Dex’s cell.

His blanket went damp and cold and his breath fogged when he sat up. Even the guards stopped making jokes when they passed Cell Two because nobody wanted to laugh in a place that had started to feel like a morgue.

Dex sat with his back to the wall and listened. That was all there was to do: listen and wait for proof that you were still in there.

Then, eventually, the cold would begin to cease.

The frost on his window would sweat and snow would melt into silver lines down the concrete. The air would warm by a degree, then another, like your body was remembering that it was summer.

And then, and only then, you would speak. “Neighbor?”

His eyes opened in the dark. “What?”

You inhaled, as if you had been thinking about this for days. “Do you think they’d let me have a hairbrush?”

Dex stared at the ceiling. “No.”

You were quiet for the rest of the night, but the cells suddenly became as warm as a hug, as if someone had reminded you that human connections were possible.

Then, the next day, you called out again. “Poindexter, right?”

“Mm,” he replied.

You paused, as if considering whether or not the question was stupid, but said it anyway. “Do you think pigeons know they’re ugly?”

Dex blinked. “I don’t think pigeons care.”

“Good for them.”

Then, a few hours later, after hearing a prison guard during dinner time call you this, you said, “Dex.”

The name came too naturally from your mouth for someone who had never said it before.

He turned his head toward the wall. “What?”

“I have an itch.”

He waited. You said nothing else.

“Okay.” he finally said.

“I’m in a restraint jacket.”

“I figured.”

“It’s under my shoulder blade.”

“That sounds inconvenient.”

“It is,” you sounded very, very annoyed.

The room heated so fast it made the steel bars creak.

Dex smiled into the dark.

You were quiet a moment longer, then said, “They keep calling it that.”

“What?”

“A restraint jacket.”

“That’s what it is.”

“No,” you said. “It’s a straitjacket.They just call it a “fireproof restraint jacket” because that sounds nicer with the taxpayers, and straitjacket makes me sound like I’m supposed to be in a basement eating wallpaper.”

Fireproof, huh?

Dex found your comparison amusing and laughed under his breath. “You’d prefer that?”

The wall warmed. You heard him. He knew you did, because the warmth stayed.

“At least it’s not an inhibitor collar,” you muttered finally.

Dex went still. “They have those?”

“Not anymore,” you said, though Dex didn’t ask for any clarifications that day.

For a while he stared out quietly.

After a moment, you asked, “Are you in one?”

“An inhibitor collar?”

“A straitjacket, genius.”

“No.”

The temperature dropped, but only in a small enough increment. “You’re not in a straitjacket?”

“No.”

“That is so fucked up.”

Dex closed his eyes. “Is it?”

“Yes,” you scoffed, “What makes you so special?”

“I don’t know.”

“This is discrimination.”

Dex, who couldn’t miss if he wanted to, looked around to see nothing in his cell that he could throw or ricochet with. And if he was imagining you right, your hands must be the main conduit to your power. You didn’t need an object to break out if your hands were free. “I don’t think that’s what that is.”

“It is to me.”

After that, you told him your name. You said it at two in the morning, half-muffled through concrete, like it had slipped out by accident.

Dex repeated it once.

The heat that bloomed through the wall felt almost shy.

After that, Dex started sleeping with his shoulder closer to your side of the cell, though he told himself it meant nothing: The bed was narrow and the room was small, that’s all. There were only so many places to put a body inside a box. But every night, somehow, he ended up turning toward you, listening for your breathing through concrete like it was the only sound in Rikers that mattered.

And when you went quiet for a bit too long, Dex would listen in, panic blooming, and it would not calm until you shifted or sighed or muttered something ridiculous about prison oatmeal, and then he could breathe again like an idiot.

That was when he understood the other half of you.

When you were in a good enough mood, your powers weren’t icy anymore. You’d run hot.

The first time it really hit him, Dex woke up sweating with his shirt clinging to his back. The window was fogged over and the snow had vanished completely, and the whole cell felt damp and tropical, like a greenhouse in Rikers.

And you were talking. God, you were talking.

You were talking your ass off, giving him whole floods of thought, fast and impossible to hold still.

“Do you think they built this place because of you specifically,” you asked once you realised your rambles had shook him awake, voice bright through the wall, “or do you think someone made a budget request years ago and then got really excited when you gave them a reason?”

Dex looked to the wall. You didn’t wait for an answer.

“Because eight cells is very ambitious. Someone must’ve sat in a meeting going, no, trust me, we are going to have so many enhanced criminals. And then it was just you for like, half a year.”

Dex sat up, and the air was even warmer.

On the other side of the wall, you shifted in the jacket, fabric rasping hard against concrete.

“Also, do you think enhanced is offensive? I can’t decide. It feels offensive. Like I didn’t ask to be labelled like a skincare serum.”

Dex’s mouth twitched up a little. “You done?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

“I also think the eggs are powdered.”

“They are.”

“I knew it.”

Then you laughed, and it was a half-controlled laugh this time, wild around the edges. The temperature in Dex’s cell jumped so fast it felt like someone had opened an oven door.

Dex now knew how your powers worked: when you were kinda sad, things frosted over. When you could barely move, it snowed.

Good mood meant warmth. Full manic meant tropical.

It was ridiculous and fascinating all the same. Sometimes, the whole unit went damp and sticky, other times the reinforced windows fogged over, the walls sweating like the building was nervous. 

Eventually, it got warmer and warmer, and you would be pacing, five steps one way, five steps back, talking out of your ass like language had become a pressure valve.

You talked about everything. The guards’ schedules, the ceiling tiles, how ugly prison socks were, whether corporations should be burned down in alphabetical order or by severity of moral failure.

Dex listened to all of it.

He learned of who you were without ever seeing your face. He knew when you were smiling because the wall warmed before your voice changed. He knew when you were pretending not to cry because the frost came fast, like you were trying to hide it and failed anyway. He knew the difference between your tired silence, your angry silence, your sad silence, your plotting silence. So he knew you.

And you knew him, too, in ways no one alive had earned before. You knew when his guards had pissed him off before he said anything. You knew when his spine hurt from the way he breathed through his teeth. Once, when he had gone too silent, you knocked your forehead lightly against the wall and said, “Dex, don’t go wherever your mind just went.” He had stared at the concrete for a long time after that, because nobody had ever come looking for him inside his own head before.

That's why, when you talked, he listened.

Some of it was nonsense. Some of it was clever. Some of it was both. You talked like someone sprinting downhill with no interest in stopping, fast and too amused by terrible things. You even told him what you did: apparently you burned down a warehouse and office of a company called Meridian Dynamics. They made suppression tech: Inhibitor collars, cuffs, injectables, sold to prisons and private security. Apparently, you planned to burn the building down during a very important board meeting, which resulted in your two counts of arson and twenty four counts of murder.

And, inevitably, you started talking about escape.

“I’m getting out,” you told Dex one night.

He was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, sweat dampening his collar. “No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“You can’t burn through reinforced doors.”

“I could if I had my hands.”

Dex looked down at his own, free, for now. He was still dangerous. His hands had always been the part of him people watched first, the part they feared, the part they restrained before opening any door.

He understood, suddenly, the cruelty of having your body treated like a weapon even when you were just sitting there, breathing.

You shifted in the jacket, and the fabric rasped like it hurt.

“Obviously,” you said, trying for lightness and missing by inches, “I don’t have them.”

Dex stared at the wall. For once, he did not know what to say.

You laughed, but it came out thin. “I can feel them. That’s the worst part. They’re right there. I just can’t use them.”

The heat dimmed.

“That why you keep talking about chewing through your jacket?”

You shrugged, though it hurt.  “Maybe.”

“You’ll break your teeth.”

“You care about my teeth?”

“I care about not listening to you complain.”

“You care.”

He should have denied it, but he didn’t.

Dex had spent his entire life understanding attachment as a liability, something people could weaponize until he became useful or pathetic or both. But with you on the other side of the wall, this attachment didn’t feel temporary. It was clear in the way he measured his nights by whether you spoke. He had an ache of wanting to see your face and being terrified that if he did, it would only make this feeling worse.

The silence stretched, warmer than it should have been. Then you said, very quietly, “I don’t think I could actually chew through it.”

“No,” Dex said. “Probably not.”

“I still might try.”

“Don’t.”

That made you laugh for real. The wall warmed beneath his palm. For a moment, it was almost gentle.

One night, after hours of heat and pacing and a long speech about how prison architecture lacked imagination, you went suddenly quiet.

Dex waited.

The wall was warm against his shoulder. Then you whispered, “Dex?”

“What?”

“Do you think I’m going to be like this forever?”

Dex looked at the concrete between you, at the damp shine where the heat had melted old frost.

“No,” he answered. 

It was the closest thing to a promise he could make through a wall. He wanted to say more, but everything else felt too fake.

He didn’t know why, but he had the urge to tell you that you were not an object or a containment problem. He wanted to tell you that if the world had built eight cells for monsters, then fine, let the world call him one, because he had found you in the next cage over and suddenly the world didn’t feel so lonely anymore.

Instead, Dex pressed his palm flat to the wall.

A second later, warmth bloomed under his hand. Not enough to burn, but enough to meet him.

 —

Dex getting moved to general population should have made him think about the Fisks.

It should have made him think about the obvious thing first, which was that Vanessa Fisk wanted him dead. 

Being moved to genpop was not a transfer. To him, a former FBI agent in a room full of convicts who has also pissed people off by working for the Kingpin, it was a death sentence. Genpop was a fancy term for a room full of men, any one of them purchasable, any one of them stupid or desperate enough to try him with a sharpened toothbrush, a melted piece of plastic, a hand around his throat in the showers.

But when the guards dragged him out of ESH when you were asleep in your cell, that was not what Dex thought about.

He thought, with a sudden, sick clarity, that you were going to be alone.

You would be alone like he had been alone for five months, rotting in a hallway built for people the world didn’t know how to categorize. 

Alone with no one but the guards who would never understood your moods.

So he called Matt and offered him a lifeline: tell him who hired him to kill Foggy Nelson in exchange for freedom.

Of course he didn’t think Matt would forgive him. But Matt had believed in the law. And mercy too, whether he wanted it or not. Dex needed both, and hated needing both, and hated more that he was not even asking just for himself.

Need sat wrong in his head. It had always felt like weakness or an exposed artery, as if anyone could just hook a finger into and pull. Needing Matt Murdock was bad enough. Needing Matt Murdock for you was humiliating in a way that Dex didn’t have vocabulary for, because it meant there was something in the world he could not take, kill, steal, or aim to fix.

See, he wanted an appeal for you, too. He had this whole speech of how in another life, Matt would defend him. About isn’t that what good men do? Defend their worst enemies? About I’m bargaining for our life here, counsellor.

Our life. Not mine. Ours.

“Oh,” Matt said. “That’s what this is.”

Dex said nothing.

“So fell in love in prison?” Matt said sarcastically. “Sweetheart, what do you want me to do? Want me to get a couple of murderers out of prison, want me to get an appeal?”

Dex didn’t answer, because answering would have made it sound too… juvenile. 

Love was not a strong enough word for a woman he had only known through a concrete wall and had fallen for anyway. It was not right for experiencing snow in a prison cell, or feeling heat through the wall, or your voice talking nonsense at three in the morning. It was not right for the way he had started sleeping closer to your side of the room. 

Matt saw enough of it anyway, and maybe that’s why he had a glimmer of sympathy. Maybe it was disgust. Maybe he thought again of Foggy, and before he knew it, Matt was slamming his head on the metal table. 

Dex barely had time to register it before pain flared through his mouth and his head snapped hard enough against the metal that the room flashed white, blood filling his mouth.

Then, he felt something small and hard come loose against his tongue.

A tooth.

A projectile.

“Thank you, counsellor,” he smiled. 

The guards pulled Dex back, and he let them haul him away, head bowed, blood dripping down his lip, the tooth hidden carefully.

Killing the doctor and the guard was child’s play after that. Navigating the prison with the dead guard’s badge was even easier. 

He would break out and kill Fisk in his black and white ball. But for now, he had something else to do in this hell hole. 

He wouldn’t escape without you.

Dex moved through Rikers with blood still drying at the corner of his mouth. 

When he reached ESH, he killed the two stationed guards with medical tools stolen from the infirmary.

And when he got in, the hallway was frozen.

Ice crawled over the floor in white veins. Frost had swallowed the observation glass. Snow had gathered in the corners like the building had been abandoned for winter. Your food tray sat untouched outside the slot because the mechanism had sealed shut.

Dex stopped outside Cell Two and looked through the narrow panel. 

This was the first time that Dex ever really saw you. 

He had seen flashes between guards, maybe a reflection from one of the guard’s shields during training drills. 

You were curled on the floor in the fireproof straitjacket, knees drawn up as much as the restraints allowed, cheek resting against the concrete. Your hair was messy. Your lips were discolored from the cold, frost clinging to your lashes like a lifeline, delicate as glitter, cruel as evidence. 

You looked… smaller than he had imagined, but no less beautiful.

He had built you in his head as strong as weather, a voice bright enough to make lights flicker. But through the glass, you were just a girl in a white straitjacket, cold and alone and trying not to disappear.

Dex pressed his bloody hand to the door.

He looked at the jacket and the lock and and thought of every hand that had put you in there and every person who had looked at you like you were a weapon before you were a human being.

He broke the door open with the stolen keycard first. 

When the door gave out, the cold rushed out around him.

You stirred, eyes opening slowly.

For one second, you only stared at him like he couldn’t possibly be real. Like maybe the cold had finally started making things up for you.

Then the frost nearest his feet began to melt.

“Dex?”

You looked confused. As if it was a guess. 

That's when you realised… you had never really seen him, either. 

He nodded, stepping inside.

Snow fell between you, unnatural and absurd beneath the fluorescent lights. Your eyes moved over his face to the blood on his mouth and the stitches on his forehead. You knew him, finally, after months of knowing him only as a voice through concrete.

Your voice sounded broken. “Is that what you look like?”

Dex almost smiled, thrilled that you looked anything but disappointed. “Yeah.”

You blinked at him, dazed and trying very hard to make your mouth curve up like this was funny. Like you had not been left alone, and that loneliness without him had turned the building into a snowy wasteland.

He crouched in front of you.

For the first time, there was no wall between you.

Dex reached for the straps.

You flinched, but not because you were afraid of him, but because the last person who reached for the jacket had touched you like you were an object, and you had burned him by accident, and then they had hurt you for it.

Dex saw all of that cross your faces so he stopped.

His hands hovered over the buckles.

“I’m taking it off,” he said, “that’s all.”

You looked at him, considering your choices. Then, just a little, you nodded.

Dex broke the first strap, the fabric strained under his grip before giving in with a harsh snap. The sound echoed through the frozen cell. Your breath caught, and his eyes flicked back to yours immediately, checking if you were okay. 

You were.

So he broke the next one.

Then the next.

Each strap breaking felt personal, and each piece tearing loose felt like he was taking something back from everyone who had decided your hands were too dangerous to belong to yourself.

When the last strap snapped, the jacket loosened.

Then your arms slipped free. You did so slowly, like you had forgotten they were ever yours.

Your hands trembled in your lap. 

Dex looked at them.

So did you.

You had not seen them for months. 

The snow thinned at first, then eventually, it stopped, the last few flakes drifting down and melting before they touched the floor. Warmth bloomed from you in a fragile little wave.

This time, it wasn’t manic heat. Instead it was warmth, like spring breaking after a cold winter. 

You lifted one hand carefully, almost shyly, and the first thing you did was touch the scar on Dex’s face.

He went perfectly still.

You brushed the blood at the corner of his mouth with your thumb, your eyes furrowing. 

“You came back,” you whispered, which, to Dex translated to: I thought you left me forever.

Dex leaned into your touch before he could stop himself. “Yeah.”

There were alarms somewhere in the distance, but ESH was far away, out of security. It would take them a while to get here. And by the time they did, it would’ve been too late. 

Dex didn’t move. Neither did you.

Then your fingers curled lightly against his chin, and before he could think better of it, Dex bent forward and kissed you.

It was small, nothing but a brush of his mouth against yours, warm and bloody from the missing teeth. 

You froze for half a second before you kissed him back.

You were sweet and a little clumsy, because your arms were stiff and your hands were shaking and neither of you had any business being tender in a prison cell full of evidence of your sadness and isolation. 

When he pulled back, you stared at him.

The frost on the walls ran down in thin silver lines.

Then you smiled, sheepish and dazed, like you were embarrassed by your own warming heart.

“I’ve always wanted to do that,” you admitted.

Dex looked at you and he had no answer.

The ruined straitjacket was still in his hands, your fingertips still against his face, and the warmth of your lips lingering on his mouth.

Outside, the prison began to panic. Inside, you smiled at him like he had brought summer with him.

And Dex, who had spent five months alone in a place built for monsters, thought there was no better reason to become one again.

—end.

Extra note: I reread this before posting and realised I may have accidentally written reader as bipolar-coded, which is very me😭😭😭 I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder around a decade ago, and it’s manageable now, but this fic ended up feeling way more personal than I expected. This is the first time I’ve ever written mood disorder x mood disorder so I hope I did alright. So please be kind with this one. She’s special to me 🫶

It was a little more than the average time to get an undergraduate degree.

It was longer than most graduate programs.

It was longer than most people spent in their first job.

It was long enough for a newborn to grow up and go to school.

And it was how long you had gone without having sex, or any intimate touch, from another living soul for that matter. You had forgotten what it felt like to be tenderly touched by another, or even how it felt to be ravaged by someone. Hell, the only touch you were used to was being tackled by enemies or the rough hands of the tower’s medic crew stitching you together from whatever injury you sustained during whatever mission.

Five years was a long time to rely on yourself for pleasure. At the beginning, it had been terrific; you were able to get yourself off when partners in the past had struggled to do so. You finally understood the hubbub around sex once you were able to experience a genuine climax. But the few silicon vibrators and dildos that you had could only do so much after a few years.

You weren’t really in the market to date, as being an Avenger took up most, if not all your time. If you weren’t on a mission, you were training, reviewing debriefings, learning to use Stark’s new technology, or trying to catch up on sleep. And on the rare occasion that you couldn’t catch a wink of sleep, you always resorted to the little box you kept tucked under your bed which held your favorite toys. After an hour or two with them, you were always able to get a few quality hours of sleep.

But recently, your vibrators and dildos weren’t doing what they used to do. You couldn’t find the right position. You couldn’t reach the same spots that you used to. It took longer for you to get off.

One night, less than a week ago, you had become so frustrated from not being able to climax that you had threw the vibrator across your room, trashed the box that held the rest of your intimate toys, and threw it into the back of your closet, never to see the light of day again.

Ever since then, you have been a little more on edge than usual.

“Hello,” Natasha drawled out, calling your name. “Are you paying attention?”

You shook your head, clearing your murky thoughts as you focused on the present. The two of you were in the tower’s gym, doing some cool down stretches after sparring and conditioning. Your friend was looking at you with slight concern, but you tried your best to brush it off.

“Sorry,” you apologized. “The training really took a toll on me.”

“Mhm, sure it did,” she agreed sarcastically. She took inventory of your posture and distracted look as she stretched her arms behind her head. “This doesn’t have anything to do with the lack of vibrations coming from your room the past few nights, does it?”

Immediately, you felt your face become engulfed in flames and your eyes bulge out of your head. Sometimes it was a gift to live so close to your best friend, but in this moment, it was curse. Damn the former widow and her sharp senses.

“Shh,” you practically hissed. “Someone could hear you! We live with super soldiers and a literal God.”

“Oh, relax,” Natasha waved off. “They’re grown men, they should be able to handle women talking about their sex lives… or lack thereof.”

You shook your head in disbelief. “Key word being ‘should’, Natasha. Steve and Bucky would go into a coma if they knew what women got up to in this day and age. And let’s not even talk about Thor. He would probably be so confused and ask us to clarify in horrifying detail what we were talking about.” You paused, considering her last jab. “Besides, what time do I have to fool around? Tony’s got us booked into next year unless we are on a mission.”

“Hmm, that just sounds like excuses – valid excuses, but excuses nonetheless,” the redhead replied, throwing you a teasing smirk as she jumped up from the mat and grabbed a towel nearby to dry her sweat.

Following in her footsteps, you got up and turned to grab a drink from your water bottle when the gym doors opened, revealing the two super soldiers you were just talking about. Steve was in his typical workout gear and he was avidly going on about something to his friend, but Bucky just gave minimal replies to his childhood friend.

Your attention remained on Bucky as he walked further into the gym with the blonde. The compression tank top that Bucky was wearing was sinful; clinging to his pecs and abdominal muscles like the fabric was about to rip at the seams. The tank top left his mouth-watering biceps on display and you could feel the saliva start to pool in your mouth. His gray sweatpants left nothing for your imagination as you could see his thick thighs straining under the fabric. If you looked close enough – and you certainly weren’t looking close enough – you could faintly see the outline of his dick through the pants. Your thighs clenched together faintly as you ripped your sight away from the Adonis in front of you.

“Afternoon, ladies,” Steve greeted you and Natasha as they came over to the benches to wrap their hands for their sparring session. “Good session today?”

“It’s always a good session when I get to wrap my thighs around someone’s head,” Natasha almost cooed, giving the blonde soldier something dangerously close to bedroom eyes.

It was no secret that Natasha and Steve were fooling around. Natasha was proud anytime she could make the All-American Boy blush, and Steve was still not used to having such blatant desire thrown his way.

Steve choked on his own spit and you could see his mind trying to conjure the image of her thighs wrapped around someone’s face; you just couldn’t tell if he was picturing you or him since he wouldn’t make eye contact with anyone.

With that response tucked into her back pocket, Natasha sauntered towards the communal showers after sending a wink over her shoulder to the Captain. He remained frozen in place even when Bucky waved his hand in front of his friend’s face.

You suppressed a laugh, amazed at how hypnotized the former Widow could leave the Golden Boy.

Bucky moved his attention to you, letting his friend sit in the moment and daydream to his heart’s content. You looked at the super soldier, anticipating him saying something, but he stayed rooted in his spot and just looked at you with eyes that contained a mix of many emotions that he was clearly trying to mask.

After several moments, you just gave him a shy smile and turned to follow Natasha to the showers. “Have a good session, boys,” you called out with a friendly wave.

Later that evening, you and Natasha were sitting in the common space on the floor that you shared with the two super soldiers. The men were still down in the gym, working out their heightened energy levels while you and Natasha were having quality girl time with each other.

There were cocktails, chips, and makeup strewn about the table in front of you. Natasha had it in her head that she was going to play around with her makeup skills to make sure she still had the skill under her belt. You had laughed at her and told her that she could never lose that skill since she looked amazing every day.

Currently, you were sipping your cocktail through a small straw while Natasha was putting some blush on your cheeks.

“You know,” Natasha started, “I think it’s time for you to get back out there. It’s been, what? Five years since your last relationship? Don’t you think it’s time to get a real dick in you instead of the silicone ones you use?”

You choked mid sip on your cocktail. Natasha and you shared a wall with your living quarters and you had been a fool to think Tony would soundproof the walls.

"I heard you throw something around a few nights ago after an hour of buzzing,” she continued, rooting around for a bigger reaction from you. She was lucky you were such close friends or you would have iced her out of your life for a comment like that.

“I mean, it was fun the first few years,” you started to explain. “My past partners never really knew how to get me there. They would always finish, roll over, and text their friends without doing much for me. So, the toys were a way that I could pleasure myself without fail.”

Natasha nodded along as she moved to pick up some eyeshadow, eyeliner, and mascara. You closed your eyes, already knowing she would need complete access to your eyelids.

You continued, “I learned new things about myself, but recently, it’s been getting predictable and I think I’m just used to the sensations. It’s losing its appeal to me.”

“Well, maybe you just need someone else to be the navigator while you enjoy the ride,” she said. “You’re predictable to yourself so getting another person involved in the mix might bring the zest back.”

“Maybe,” you agreed, taking another sip of your drink as you felt the assassin drag a brush over your lids. “But there’s no way in hell I’m going out to those gross clubs or jumping on the heinous dating apps just to get laid. It’s never been my scene and after working in this field, I don’t think crowds will ever appeal to me again.”

You heard her hum in agreement before she gave your shoulder a small tap, letting you know she was done with her eyes. You relaxed back against the couch and took another sip of your cocktail as Natasha looked at the supplies before her to decide what she wanted to work on next.

“That’s fair,” she agreed. “But there are other ways to meet people. There are libraries, cafes, parks, even grocery stores.”

“Who meets people in the grocery store Natasha?” you asked in genuine disbelief. “Only serial killers pick up people from the grocery store.”

“Okay, maybe that was a bad example, but you know what I mean,” she chided, grabbing the tube of red lipstick. You played the dutiful client and leaned forward so she could swipe the crimson pigment across your lips. “I just want my friend to have a good time and not die from the shock of a frayed wire in an old vibrator.”

Once she was finished, you leaned back and turned to look at the mirror she had set up on the coffee table. Your breath caught in your throat momentarily as you looked at the woman staring back at you. You were mesmerized by her visage.

It had been ages since you wore makeup. It wasn’t necessary in the field you worked in. During your time not fighting crime, you were conditioning yourself in the gym, cooking in the kitchen, or lounging around.

The woman staring back at you still looked like you, but your features were more exaggerated and alluring in this sultry look.

As you stared at yourself in the mirror, you were so caught up in your thoughts that you didn’t hear the elevator doors open, dumping the two super soldiers out into the common room of your shared floor. You heard someone talking, but you couldn’t register much at the moment, still swept up in your features.

“What do we think?” Nat’s voice eventually broke you out of your thoughts and you turned to look at who she was talking to.

There, standing with his hands on his traitorously slim hips, was none other than Bucky Barnes. His skin was glimmering with the sweat that clung to him and you found yourself momentarily jealous of the beads of sweat that rolled from his temple all the way down to his clavicle. The muscles in his arms, chest, abdomen, and thighs looked particularly mouthwatering after his gym session and you had to remind yourself that you were in front of other people so you didn’t start drooling.

You tore your eyes away from him, looking down at your hands for a second to gather your wits. While you were collecting yourself, you heard shuffling and the sound of someone getting elbowed, making you look up at the men to see Bucky glaring at Steve and the blonde grinning at you and Natasha with an innocent expression.

Natasha arched an eyebrow, waiting for one of them to say something. You already knew she had some plan unraveling in her mind, you just didn’t know where you fit into it and what these two men had to do with anything.

After another long stretch of silence, Bucky cleared his throat, drawing everyone’s attention to him. “Uh…” His hand reached up to scratch the back of his neck as he looked straight at you and took in your appearance. “You look – you look really – um, you look -”

You basked in the attention he was giving you and hearing him stumble through his words to describe you sent small sparks shooting down your spine. There have always been moments between you and Bucky that you felt were charged. You never knew if he felt them too, if you were reading into your interactions too much, or if you were projecting your crush too loudly.

With another elbow to the side from his childhood best friend, Bucky cleared his throat again before looking at Natasha and nodding his head. “Uhm, it looks fine,” he said with a painfully awkward smile on his face and Steve eagerly nodded along like a dog who was loyal to its owner.

The sparks you felt earlier fizzled out upon hearing the word “fine” leave his lips. “Fine” wasn’t beautiful. “Fine” wasn’t gorgeous. “Fine” wasn’t ugly. “Fine” was… lackluster and a bit underwhelming.

“Fine” was what Bucky Barnes thought of you, apparently. It wasn’t what you wanted him to think of you. You wanted him to be enamored with you, enraptured or enthralled. His stuttering earlier had given you so much hope that he felt an inkling of the same way that you felt for him. But one word dashed all your hopes and dreams in less than a second.

“That’s all you have to say?” Natasha asked, thoroughly unimpressed by the former assassin in front of her.

“Fine is good, isn’t it?” Steve asked, clearly trying to help dig his friend out of the hole he had put himself in.

Your shoulders deflated the slightest bit and you quickly pulled on your proverbial mask, not needing anyone in the room to see what “fine” really made you feel. You grabbed your cocktail, downed the rest of the drink, and stood up quickly.

“I’m going to get another drink,” you said, making your escape without looking at anyone in the room.

Once you reached the kitchen, you ditched your glass in the sink and walked over to the balcony that was attached to the dining area. The cool air hit your face as soon as you stepped outside and it helped the stinging feeling of “fine” leave your system.

You leaned against the rail of the balcony and looked down at the city below. The bright lights of the buildings and cars beneath were hypnotizing. The sound of people going about their lives was a nice soundtrack to have as you attempted to sort through your thoughts.

God, what was wrong with you? How did one person have such a hold over you? It was silly. You were letting one word from a man that you happened to be yearning for dictate your mood – something you had promised you wouldn’t fall into again after your last relationship. You were more than how a man made you feel, even if said man was a Grecian God embodied in muscle and skin right before your eyes.

“Ugh,” you groaned to yourself, shaking your head. “Stupid men. Stupid words. Stupid feelings!”

Before you could continue on your barrage of insults towards the other sex, Natasha popped her head out from the door. She gave you a soft, knowing look that made tears of frustration well in your eyes.

“Hey,” she greeted calmly. “I’m headed to bed. Do you need anything?”

You gave her a tight smile and shook your head. “I’ll be okay. Thank you for the makeover, by the way. I haven’t seen myself like this in a long time.”

“You’re welcome, but just so you know, you’re gorgeous. Not just ‘fine’,” she said, winking at you as she went back inside and sauntered to her room.

After almost an hour of sitting outside, you pushed away from the balcony’s railing and walked back inside, coming to a halt when you saw a tall form with a metal arm standing at the fridge, looking through its contents for something to eat or drink.

At the sound of your footsteps stopping, the soldier turned around and met your gaze. You bit the inside of your cheek, not knowing what to say or do. The two of you just stood there, staring at each other, holding your breaths.

Bucky was the one who ended up breaking the silence. “Hey,” he breathed out.

You gave him a tight-lipped smile and nodded your head towards him. The silence consumed the space between you once more. Deciding that you wanted this moment to end, you gave him another nod before walking towards the doorway of the kitchen to go to your bedroom.

“Wait,” Bucky’s voice stopped you in your tracks. You turned to face him and saw him walk around the island so he could stand in front of you. “I’m… I’m sorry for that whole… thing back in the common room.”

Your eyes widened a bit in surprise.

He scratched the back of his neck again; a gesture you were coming to know was his tell when he was feeling put on the spot. “I haven’t exactly had practice talking to women the past few decades.” An awkward, self-conscious chuckle came out of his mouth. “Much less someone like you.”

“Like me?” you repeated, not understanding what that was supposed to mean exactly.

The hand that was on his neck dropped and clenched into a fist briefly before he let it go and shook his fist out. His eyes dropped from yours and flickered around the room before finding yours again.

“Yeah, someone like you,” he repeated. “Someone who is much more than ‘fine’.”

“Bucky, what –” He cut you off, answering the question you couldn’t fully ask.

“Someone who is probably the prettiest dame I’ve ever seen in my life,” he said quietly in a low tone. If you were three more feet away from him, you don’t think you would have heard him; but you did and now you had a blushing super soldier standing in front of you, looking at his feet because he didn’t want to meet your eyes after his confession.

Your whole body was stunned. Your feet couldn’t move. Your eyes were frozen wide open. Your mind was stuck on “prettiest dame I’ve ever seen”. Everything you had spiraled about on the balcony was all for naught after hearing Bucky’s words.

The more you thought about it, the more you realized that his actions around you have never been out of avoidance or convenience like you feared. Almost all the interactions you have had with Bucky have been awkward. Sure, you had a hand in making the encounters awkward with your incessant crush and never knowing what to say around someone you found physically attractive, but Bucky was also awkward during your encounters.

He was awkward in the way he would always send you a shy smile in the gym before immediately turning around to do something else.

He was awkward in the way he would scoot over on the couch during movie nights to make ample room for you before offering you three different blankets.

He was awkward in the way he fumbled over his words to you every time, except during missions.

It was all because Bucky was feeling awkward since he found you attractive, too.

The realization brought you out of your stupor and you shuffled forward half a step before reaching out to lift his chin with your pointer and middle fingers. While you moved his head up to hopefully make eye contact, you found that he was still avoiding your eyes. A slight chuckle came from your chest, effectively pulling his gaze back to you.

His blue eyes twinkled under the fluorescent kitchen lighting, making him look slightly more youthful and innocent. The blush on his cheeks earlier had yet to fade, still leaving his cheeks a dusty rose. His teeth held his bottom lip captive as he scanned your face, looking for something that might tell him he messed up. But he wouldn’t find anything like that.

You trailed the two fingers holding his chin up down the side of his throat, lightly petting the smooth skin beneath your digits. Something like a purr resonated from his vocal cords and chest, making the smile on your face pull tighter and wider.

“Prettiest dame you’ve ever seen, huh?” you gently asked him, watching as the blush across his cheeks intensify.

“Uh…” he cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah, I’d say so.”

You bit your lip to keep your smile from splitting your face in half. It was ridiculous how fast your heart was racing just because he was fumbling around in your presence. You could hear your blood racing in your ears and something behind your ribcage was threatening to break out at any moment.

“I don’t know how it took me so long to realize how awkward you are,” you whispered. His eyes widened in shock and a look of disbelief flashed over his features. You quickly put his worries to rest. “It’s super cute.”

Bucky groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, looking like he wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole. “Cute isn’t exactly what I was going for.”

“Yeah? Well, ‘fine’ isn’t exactly what I was going for, either,” you quipped, watching his face drop in mortification at the reminder of his blunder earlier in the night. Before you could think twice, you leaned in and gave his cheek a quick peck, making sure to subtly inhale his scent while you were this close.

The moment your lips connected with the skin of his cheek, Bucky’s body went rigid beneath you. You pulled back slowly, watching as he stared at your mouth and robotically brought a hand up to his cheek to touch the place where your lips had been.

You didn’t know what to do after this and there was a part of you that was dying to go to your room and scream into a pillow over the fact that Bucky Barnes found you attractive. So, you listened to that part of you and gave him a small smile before slowly walking backwards and leaving him to his own devices. Once you rounded the doorway of the kitchen, you squealed and ran to your room in record time.

The moment your bedroom door closed behind you, you started to jump around and twirl, needing to get the giddy excitement out of your body somehow. You launched yourself on to your bed and buried your face in your pillows, flailing your limbs around to express your bundle of emotions.

Your celebration was cut short, however, with a knock at your door. You sat up quickly, figuring it was probably Natasha coming to ask what the ruckus was. You stood up from your bed and skipped over to the door, throwing it open to tell your friend everything.

Where you expected to find a small redheaded woman, you found a tall brunet haired man with blue eyes that were almost eclipsed by his pupils.

“Buck-”

Before you could even get his name out of your mouth, the super soldier stepped forward into your space. His hands came up to cup your face as he pulled you into his orbit and covered your lips with his. The sensation of his warm, slightly chapped lips against yours was enough to send all your senses haywire. You saw stars behind your eyes, and you felt as if your body was about to fuse with Bucky’s massive frame. You would happily let him consume you if it meant you could keep kissing him.

It all ended too quickly for your liking. Bucky pulled away and stared into your hazy eyes with eyes equally cloudy.

“Bucky,” was the only word that was able to eek out of your brain.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I’ve been wanting to do that a long time, but I should have asked before kissing you. I’m so sorry, I really am.” His hands dropped from your face and he took multiple steps backwards.

You shook your head, unable to conjure words to placate his mounting anxiety. You followed after him and grabbed the front of his shirt, stopping him from backing away from you further. The two of you stood in the hallway, staring at each other with heaving chests, not moving. The tension between you both was so tense, you felt something start to fray from being pulled too taught. And that something was your desire for the super soldier in front of you.

“Bucky,” you murmured, “you don’t have to apologize.”

“No, I do,” he countered. “I shouldn’t kiss you without your consent. My Ma is rolling over in her grave.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up out of your chest. Even though the man in front of you had been a weapon for decades, there was still no taking the well-mannered boy out of his forties’ expectations.

“What if I told you I liked that you kissed me like that?”

That brought his attention back to the current moment between you. His pupils eclipsed his hypnotizing blue irises and you could see his body coil with restraint as you gently tugged him into your room by the front of his shirt. His hands flew to your waist as he stumbled forward, already under the spell of your confidence and persuasion.

He swallowed harshly before huffing out a laugh. “Then I would say, good, because I really liked kissing you.”

“How about we do it again?”

That was all he needed to hear before he wound his metal arm around you, entwined his flesh hand in the hair at the base of your neck, and pulled you forward into yet another breath-taking kiss. Your arms wrapped around his neck and you felt the muscles under his shirt shift as your hands touched his skin.

The hand at the back of your neck tilted your head back so he could deepen the kiss, causing a moan to burst from your throat. Bucky took advantage of the momentary opening of your lips and slipped his tongue into your mouth. The wet muscle traced your teeth before entwining itself around your tongue. Bucky was surprisingly very great at kissing for not being in control of his body for decades upon decades.

Your hands started to eagerly pull at his shirt, needing to feel his warm skin under your palms while the two of continued to explore each other. Bucky briefly pulled back from the kiss to rip his shirt over his head before pulling your body flush against his. The moment your hands touched his pectorals, Bucky let out the most pathetic whimper you had ever heard come from a man. Heat flooded your system and you swore you could feel your heartbeat in between your thighs.

You raked your nails over his skin, drawing another sound from Bucky. His hands started to paw at your body, one hand sneaking up your shirt and the other slipped under your pants, grabbing a handful of your ass. You gasped, not expecting Bucky to make such a bold move, but thoroughly enjoying the sensation of his calloused, warm hand grabbing the soft flesh of your bottom.

It was clear that he was enjoying himself by his growing erection poking your lower tummy. While you were able to see sublet outlines of his endowment through some of his sweatpants, he felt much bigger than you imagined he was, and the moan you let out as you rubbed yourself on top of him let him know just how you much you craved him.

“Off,” you mumbled against his mouth. “Clothes off.”

He broke apart from you slowly, as if it pained him to do so, before he stripped his pants and boxers off, leaving him bare in front of you.

Now, you had envisioned Bucky naked many times. You had seen him shirtless before, but never anything below the belt. In your mind, you gave Bucky a generous sized cock, surrounded by a trimmed, shallow bush, surrounded by his thunderous thighs. But seeing the real thing was making you feel guilty for not giving him more.

While he did have a smattering of chest hair and a happy trail that made you very happy, you were simply at a loss for words. Between his legs, hung the most thick, flushed, and lengthiest dick you had ever seen. It was menacing, to be quite honest. Your toys were based around the average male’s size and you had no idea if he could fit himself inside of you. However, the most mouthwatering part of it all was the thick, dense curls that sat at the base of his delicious cock. It was so rugged and masculine, and in the current state you were in, it was enough to make your knees actually quake. Bucky’s right arm shot out to steady you, thankfully.

“Are you okay?” he asked, worry seeping into his tone.

You nodded your head, unable to pull your gaze away from his groin. “More than okay,” you answered after gulping down the saliva that had pooled in your mouth. Bucky’s deep chuckle pulled your eyes back to his. While you had expected him to be flushed from the attention you were giving him, he appeared more confident under your hungry gaze. Dare you say: he was glowing from your blatant ogling. A small smirk sat on his devastatingly swollen, pink lips and you couldn’t hold back a groan as you lunged for his lips.

He held you back, much to your dismay. His eyes stared down at you and it felt like you were going to get sucked into the black hole that were his eyes. “You’re wearing too much.”

Suddenly, two sets of hands were ripping at your clothes. You were focused on your top and Bucky was working on the zipper of your jeans, shimmying them down your legs once they headed his demand. You tossed the cotton shirt to the ground and unhooked your bra. Before you could pull the straps off your shoulder, Bucky stopped you. His fingers took over the task, slowly pulling them down your shoulders, savoring the moment.

Once your breasts were free from your bra, you could hear Bucky grunt as if someone had dealt a blow to his solar plexus. In the next moment, his hands and mouth descended on your chest, enveloping the delicate skin with calloused and wet heat. Your hands flew into his hair and tugged on the roots, pulling his face impossibly closer to your chest. Every tweak to your nipples from his metal fingers or his teeth and tongue caused your underwear to cling to you more and more.

“Bucky,” you moaned, earning one back in response. Your fingers that were threaded through his thick hair pulled, trying to bring him back up to your mouth, but he stubbornly latched on to your breast and refused to move away. When his teeth came down gently around the peak of your nipple, you felt your legs give out from the overwhelming sensation. Bucky’s strong arm supported your weight as he slowly turned you around and backed you up to your bed.

He trailed his mouth to your other breast and laid the both of you down while he lavished his attention all over your chest. You never knew that you could feel so good from stimulation on your breasts alone, but what a revelation it was. Your back arched as you were laid out on the bed with Bucky’s weight hovering over you. He let out a satisfied moan when your action pushed your soft skin further into his hand and mouth.

After another moment, Bucky moved his attention from your chest and trailed wet, hot, sloppy kisses down your torso until he reached the cotton of your underwear. He looked up, catching your gaze, and you gave him a small nod of consent to pull your underwear off.

“I need your words,” Bucky softly chided. “I need to know you want this.”

“I do, yes!” you eagerly answered. “I want this so bad, Bucky.”

“Yeah?” he questioned as he pulled your underwear down with an excruciatingly slow pace.

You nodded your head, completely mesmerized as you looked down at him. How could you not be mesmerized when he looked at you with something akin to awe or worship? It was taking everything in you not to grab him, throw him down on the bed, and ride him until the break of dawn. But you would be a fool to rush your first time together. You wanted this moment to last forever. “I’ve wanted you – this – since you joined the team.”

“You’re telling me we could have been doing this since I joined?” he asked as he crawled back up your body, peppering kisses on whatever exposed skin he could. You nodded your head quickly and pulled him into another searing kiss. “We have a lot of time to make up for then,” he said between kisses.

You were about to draw him closer when suddenly, you heard something vibrating under your bed, sending small vibrations through the bedframe. The two of you pulled away and looked at each other with confusion, not understanding what was happening.

The vibrations continued, prompting Bucky to pull himself off you and move off the bed. After a few seconds, he came back up, holding a box you had thought was buried in the back of your closet. Your eyes grew wide like saucers as Bucky put the box on the bed and opened the lid before you could come to your senses and stop him from seeing what was inside.

His brows furrowed as he pulled out the culprit – your bright red, bullet vibrator. Bucky looked up at you with a puzzled expression. “What is this?”

You snatched the vibrator from his hands, turned it off and threw it across the room. “It’s nothing!” you immediately responded, feeling anxiety creep into your veins. What would Bucky think of your box of vibrators? What would his old-fashioned mind come up with and would he be finished with what you were about to do when he realized what it was?

“Nothing? Then why is there a note from Natasha in here?”

“What?”

You pulled the box closer to you and looked inside to see a small note inside. On it, Natasha just wrote "I dusted these off for you”, with a winking face underneath, a condom tapped to said note, and her initial. You groaned, burying your face in your hands. You knew she meant well, but it was mortifying to know she had dug around in your closet, found the box, and then put it back where you had it hidden before. You didn’t even want to know how she knew where it used to live.

“Hey,” Bucky said softly, grabbing your wrists to pull your hands from your face. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

You sighed, realizing there was no way to get around this other than going through the awkward moment. “Um, it’s a bit embarrassing, but… these are my… adult toys, you could say.”

When you looked at Bucky, you could tell he didn’t quiet get what you were saying. How could he when talking about sex was taboo during his youth and when he was a brainwashed assassin for the last however-many-decades.

"Uh, I kinda used to use them to help me… relax,” you tried again, hoping your euphemism would translate in his brain.

“Relax?”

You buried your head in your hands again and murmured.

“What did you say?”

“They’re my sex toys!” you burst out, looking up at him with wild, expectant eyes. You saw the moment clarity hit his brain. His face shifted from confusion to understanding to flushed in the span of one second. He was silent for a minute before he spoke up.

“Sex toys?” He said it like he wasn’t expecting an answer, so you didn’t respond to him, waiting to see how this situation would unfold. “You used these… while I was just down the hall.”

You sat there, frozen, watching as Bucky took the box from your hands and put it down on the floor before kicking it away from the bed. He stood up and crawled on to the bed, pushing you down gently before he laid his body on top of yours. The warmth, the weight, and the scent of him flooded your senses, making you effectively forget how to produce words.

“I never want you to use those again,” he growled. “Not while I’m here.”

With that, he gave you a scorching kiss before he moved down the bed, positioning himself at the apex of your thighs. He gently pushed your thighs apart so his broad shoulders could situate himself to access your pussy.

“She’s so pretty,” he cooed as he looked down at you with the hungriest look you have ever seen grace his face. He drew a finger through your slick folds, and a violent shiver made its way up your spine, sending your back arching off the bed. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked darkly as he held your hips down with his beautiful vibranium arm. “I’m just getting started with her.”

His mouth descended on your core while his fingers continued to draw lazy shapes near your entrance. The moment his lips touched the hood of your clit, you practically let out a scream. Everything he was doing felt more sensitive than it should have been. You could say that was the one perk of being single for the last five years.

His tongue, lips, and fingers worked over your pussy with rapt attention. He held you down with every attempt your hips made to cant up into his touch, fully engrossed in the task he had set for himself.

“God, you taste so sweet,” he slurred against your sex.

Your hands gripped the sheets underneath you and your eyes rolled to the back of your head when his fingers finally entered you, curling inside your walls. Every drag of his fingers, every swipe of his tongue over your clit, every grumble and groan that came from his chest sent you soaring higher and higher. Your bones felt like they were catching fire while your muscles felt like they were turning to liquid. Your body was overwhelmed with pleasure and you came with a scream before you could voice anything to Bucky.

The solider between your legs eagerly lapped up every last drop of your release, moaning against you enthusiastically. Your chest heaved with uneven breaths as you rode out the warm waves of your orgasm. You were so encapsulated in the fuzzy warmth of your pleasure that you didn’t notice the Adonis of a man crawling back up your body until he connected his mouth with yours.

The tangy taste of yourself on his tongue made you reel even as you were coming down. Bucky’s hands closed around your wrists and brought your hands above your head, pulling your body taught beneath his as he settled on top of you once more. You felt a warm liquid bead just under your navel when Bucky pressed his hips into yours.

“Bucky, please,” you begged. “I need to touch you, please.”

“Shh,” he hushed against your lips. “I know, but I need to be inside of you right now before I lose my mind.”

You whined like a petulant child as you were denied from handling Bucky the way you had been dreaming about since you saw him, receiving a chuckle from the man above you.

Bucky pulled a hand away from your wrists, holding them with his other, while he wrapped his metal hand around himself. He dragged the angry red tip of his cock through your folds, lubing himself with your slick. Stars erupted behind your eyes as you basked in the feeling of him. After a moment, Bucky let himself fall against your core as he reached to get the condom he slyly put next to you before he kicked your box of adult toys away. He quickly ripped the package open with his teeth and rolled the condom on to his obscene length.

There was a brief moment where everything froze between the two of you and you just stared at each other.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” you whispered, afraid if you spoke too loudly that you would ruin the moment.

“This is just the beginning,” he said while lining himself up with your entrance. “I need you to let me know if I hurt you.”

“I’ll tell you,” you replied immediately, knowing that consent and safety were very important to Bucky after all that he had been through. “I promise. But I need you inside right now.”

A sly grin formed on his face before he started to slowly push in. Your hands fought against his hold, wanting to clutch his shoulders tightly while he was splitting you apart with his monstrous dick. The stretch was lethal. You could feel him impaling you, but there wasn’t any pain like you were afraid there would be with a man of his size. Instead, the stretch caused a blossoming heat to begin unfurling in your lower tummy.

“Oh, my God,” you moaned. The sound was borderline pornographic, but that was the least of your worries at the moment. “Bucky, you’re so big.”

Bucky dropped his head to your shoulder upon hearing your words. “You can’t say things like that while I’m inside you, doll. I’ll finish before we can even begin.”

You giggled, feeling the warmth increase at the thought of Bucky being too worked up and finishing before he was fully inside of you. There was nothing you found more attractive than Bucky loosing his cool at the thought of you or the words you said.

A groan tore out of his throat at your giggle. “You can’t laugh either. I can’t control myself when you clench around me.” You ceased your laughing for his sake and instead focused on his cock sinking into you. After a few more moments, Bucky was fully sheathed inside of you, and you had never felt fuller or this content than you did in this moment.

“Please, move,” you whispered into his ear, urging him on with a roll of your hips into his.

Bucky didn’t need to be told twice. He immediately set the perfect pace, pulling and pushing his hips into yours, eliciting lewd sounds from where the two of you were joined. Bucky’s head remained on your shoulder, but you felt his teeth sink into the flesh of your shoulder and the slight burst of pain sent a thrill down your spine and a moan fall from your lips.

“God, you’re so tight,” Bucky wheezed. “How are you this tight?”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve let someone into my bed,” you answered.

“No one else is allowed in this bed,” he growled, punctuating his possessive comment with a particularly harsh thrust of his hips. The tip of his cock brushed a spot inside of you that you had only been able to find once before with one of your toys. But with each thrust afterwards, Bucky had no problem reaching the same spot, sending all conscious thought out of your brain. “No one else will ever get to know what you feel like.”

You could feel the coil in your belly threatening to snap once again with each roll of his hips and every word that came out of his mouth. In this moment, it felt as if this man was made for you. The way his cock fit inside of you. The way his head fit perfectly in your shoulder. The way his skin felt against yours. The way the coarse hairs at the base of his cock brushed against your clit with each thrust.

Bucky’s hand let go of your wrists and flew to hold himself up on the bed as he began to speed up his strokes. With your hands free, you reached down and latched on to his shoulders, bringing your bodies closer together. With the pleasure building in your tummy, you felt yourself fly higher towards the sun.

If this was how Icarus felt, you understood why he couldn’t resist the warmth and beauty of the sun.

“I’m close,” you whined, sinking your fingernails into Bucky’s shoulder. “Right there. Please, don’t stop, Bucky.”

“Come for me,” he commanded. “I want to feel you come around me.”

With his permission, you felt the tight band of pleasure snap, flooding you with endorphins while you rode out the best orgasm of your life. Bucky whined above you as he stilled his hips and you could feel the condom fill with his release as the two of you came together.

The two of you laid entangled together afterwards and the weight of his body on top of yours was lulling you to sleep. When you felt Bucky shift above you, you latched on to him, not wanting him to go anywhere.

“I’m not leaving, I just don’t want to crush you,” Bucky laughed as he rolled you both on to your sides. With his head on your pillow, you soaked in the sight of him looking much lighter than he ever has. You reached out and brushed a strand of his hair behind his ear, dragging your thumb over the skin of his cheekbone. His eyes fluttered shut and he let out a content sigh. “I’m never leaving this bed,” he said.

Butterflies erupted in your belly as you thought about waking up to Bucky every day. It was a sight you knew you could get used to. “I guess we’ll have to send in our resignations to the team,” you joked, earning a genuine smile from the man out of time laying next to you.

He curled his arms around you, pulling you flush against his body. “About those toys,” he mumbled into your hair. You leaned your head back to look into his eyes and giggled when you saw the faux menacing look on his face. “We’re getting rid of those devil red toys tomorrow. First thing.”

You laughed and leaned in to press a kiss to his lips, not knowing how else to express your joy and awe for the man finally laying in your arms.

a/n: if you made it this far, THANK YOU!!! i hope you enjoyed this very self-indulgent fic of mine! reblogs and comments are much appreciated <3

“But what if it’s not fine,” you’d pleaded. “What if there’s a- A storm, or more people than we thought, or- Or Bucky gets hurt-“

“Who is in charge of Bucky’s health?” Yelena had cut you off with a pointed look, and you’d swallowed.

“I’m not- I wouldn’t say in charge-“

“You make him eat vegetables. That is in charge.”

“I make all of you eat vegetables-“

“You don’t make me eat vegetables,” Walker had muttered, and you’d flipped him off.

“That’s because I hate you.”

Walker had scowled, Ava—pressed against the wall of the room and clearly trying not to be involved in this conversation—had snorted, and Yelena’s mouth had twitched.

“See,” she’d given you a winning grin. “You are a natural leader. You will be fine.”

“I will not be fine-“

Bucky had said your name, and everyone in the room had gone still. He’d been left out of this meeting. From Yelena’s wide eyes and Ava’s smirk, it hadn’t been hard to work out that it was on purpose.

“What isn’t going to be fine,” Bucky had muttered, and Walker and Yelena had an exchanged sharp, you do it looks.

Walker had lost the glare off, sighed, and turned to Bucky with a wide, winning grin.

“You’re taking the scout on her first mission, buddy, congrats- Shit- Hey-“

Bucky had stormed forward, metal hand flexing like he was thinking about wrapping it around Walker’s throat. He’d stopped himself, shot you a strange look, and jerked his head.

“Out,” he’d grunted, before pausing and adding, “Please.”

The please hadn’t been necessary. You’d almost run out the room with a nervous look back, a little worried you were going to come back to a bloodbath. The glass was supposed to be fully soundproof. You’d still been able to hear muffled, furious shouting. 

Bucky had stormed out after almost an hour, given you a tight look, strange look, then stomped down the hall. Yelena had given you a thumbs up. You’d—foolishly—hoped that meant you were off the hook.

It hadn’t.

You’d been dropped in Norway with Bucky a week later, an hour after planned—Alexei wanted to bring his camera, and wouldn’t hear anyone tell him no—with plans to be picked up in the morning.

“Stay close,” Bucky had muttered, not meeting your gaze. “And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

You’d nodded, your voice barely more than a  breath. “James, I- I don’t know what you’d do.“

“Then don’t do anything.” He’d snapped.

You’d shrunken into yourself. You knew he didn’t like this—you weren’t a big fan either—but the bristling, electric anger almost radiating off of him, it wasn’t anything you were used to. Bucky was usually kind to you. He opened your doors and brought you muffins from the bakery down the street. You made him watch movies when he couldn’t sleep, and he asked you questions about pop culture when he was confused. You had a good—confusing, but good—relationship.

Yelena likes to tease that he like likes you. You try to punch her in the face, and always miss. He doesn’t. He couldn’t. He’s Bucky Barnes, and you’re a dork with a computer that he’s nice to because he’s a good man.

A kind, handsome, perfect man with a jawline you’d kill to kiss and hands you’d die to hold. A man who remembers your birthday when you sometimes forget, and knows your coffee order, and lets you push him around even thought he could crush you with a single hand. You’d like him to crush you with that hand. Maybe pin you down with it and split you open and kiss you with those soft lips that always ghost with a smile at your stupid jokes.

You never should’ve told Yelena about your tiny, little, totally manageable crush on him to begin with. It’s going to be the death of you. You’re sort of starting to worry that this was Yelena’s grand plan to finally make you talk to him. If it was, you’re actually going to kill her, or hire someone who can.

Because it started raining. And after it started raining, lightning cracked through the sky, and thunder followed, and you and Bucky got slowed down. Slowed down enough that—combined with the weather conditions—Alexei couldn’t come pick you up. And you had to find a hotel in Norway.

And the only room left had one bed.

And you’re going to jump off the balcony and pray that Bucky doesn’t catch you.

“You should take a shower,” he mutters, tossing your bag onto the couch. “I’ll go find some extra clothing.”

You nod, pulling at the sleeves of your drenched shirt. “I- I can take the couch-“

“No.”

You sigh. “Bucky-“

“I’m on the couch,” he shoots you a stern look, bracing his hands on his hips. “And you’re on the bed.”

You swallow, and nod. Arguing with him right now doesn’t seem productive. You’re lucky he’s still talking to you after the mission.

It didn’t go poorly. In fact, given everything, it actually went better than you could’ve hoped for. But Bucky is still looking at you like you’re a problem, and it’s making you sort of sick. You don’t want to be something extra that weighs on his shoulders. Don’t want to be an extra layer of ice, pressing down on his chest when he’s already the one keeping you both together. It’s already cold enough as it is.

You shower. Bucky finds clothing—an oversized, thin fabriced shirt that just drapes past your thighs—and follows after you. Neither of you say much, and you try not to let the silence feel like poison, but it’s hard. He’s never been quiet with you this long, but you’ve also never been in this kind of situation with him before.

“Alexei will get us in the morning,” he mutters, stepping out of the shower with only a towel wrapped around his waist. “Then we’ll get you home.”

“Oh- Okay.” You flush, staring down at your hands. His chest is broad, and bare, and warm looking. The rivers of scars over his shoulder and pecs look like they’d be easy to map, and the dip of his towel show off the strength of his stomach. Thick and muscled, soft in all the right places, probably easy to wrap yourself in, and-

Bucky mutters you name, and you’d stopped staring at your hands without thinking. You clear your throat and slide into the bed, grabbing your phone with shaking fingers and pretending to be deeply invested in the blank lock screen. In your periphery, Bucky doesn’t move for a long moment. You dare to look at him under your lashes, and find him staring back.

“Bucky?” You ask softly, and Bucky’s throat bobs. “Are you-“

“You did good,” he grunts, and you blink, heat rushing between your thighs.

“I- I did good?”

He nods tightly. “Today. You did good.”

“Oh.” You swallow, unable to break his gaze. “I- I didn’t do much-“

“You got me through the lab. You listened.”

“Anyone can listen, James.”

Bucky’s jaw twitches, and he huffs something close to a laugh. “You’d be surprised,” he mutters, grabbing his warm clothing off the arm of the couch. “And don’t sell yourself short, doll. You listen real well.”

Your mouth falls open, and you think you might be frozen in place. Bucky retreats back to the bathroom, and you’re not even sure what to do with yourself. You’re sure he didn’t mean it like that, but god, it would’ve been nice if he did. Your head certainly takes the thoughts and runs with them. Bucky over you in this same bed, that metal hand pressed against your stomach, cooed praise and light orders of take it and make some noise for me, doll. The gleam in his eyes when you’d listen, the way he’d feel buried inside of you, the burn of blue eyes as he’d watch you come apart, driving into your cunt over and over and over-

“Night,” Bucky grunts, and you blink at him through the dark.

“Night,” you breathe back, and for a second, you just stare at each other.

Bucky’s gaze softens slightly. You could swear is does. And maybe it’s just a trick of the light, but his gaze drags down the fabric of your sleep shirt, catching on your bare thighs and spread legs. His tongue darts over his lips, and you press your thighs together, shifting nervously on the mattress.

He looks back up to you, jaw working tight. 

“Night,” he mutters again, and you swallow.

He goes for the light, and you glance at the couch. It’s small. More of a sectional than a functional piece of comfort.  

“Bucky?” You say, before you can think better of it. “Do you- Do you want to sleep in the bed.”

Bucky freezes, his hand on the light switch. You swallow, pulling the sheets higher up your body, and Bucky mutters your name. “You don’t have to-“

“Are you going to be able to sleep on the couch?” You whisper, and his jaw ticks again.

“That’s not your shit to worry about-“

“Alexei’s going to talk the whole ride home,” you push, and his throat bobs. “And you- You get really grumpy when you don’t sleep.”

Bucky chuckles. “I get grumpy, huh.”

You nod, and he sighs. His hand curls into a fist, and for a second, you’re sure he’s going to tell you no.

“I- I really don’t mind-“ 

“Alright,” he cuts you off, words short and clipped. “You win.”

You blink, and try not to smile when he hits the lights. The streetlamps outside let you see his figure, walking over to the bed. You force yourself not to hold your breath, and lie down like everything is perfectly normal.

The mattress dips. Bucky lies flat and stiff on his back, slowly pulling the sheets over his body, and you turn away, trying to hide the flush blooming over your face.

This was a mistake. That’s clear now. You adore him too much, and you wanted to help, and it made you forget about the actual consequences of Bucky being right there, next to you, wearing only sweats and emitting heat like a furnace. The bed feels smaller than it did a moment ago, but that might just be the size of him. Your fingers brush, and his hand jerks away like he thinks you’re going to burn. You twist further over, pulling the blankets with you.

“You’re hogging,” Bucky grunts, and you pull your knees a little into your chest.

“Sorry,” you mumble, trying to loosen your grip. “Just- Cold.”

It’s not cold. It was, before he climbed in next to you. Now it’s impossibly humid, like you’ve been dropped in to a hot spring. Bucky sighs, and doesn’t take the slack of the sheets you offered. You shift in the bed, trying to make yourself smaller, trying to offer him more space.

The minutes crawl past you. It’s been an exhausting day, but you’ve never been more awake. You’re worried he can hear your heartbeat. You’re worried he can smell the arousal, pooling between your thighs whenever your feet brush. You’re almost curled fully into a ball, the sheet wrapped around you like a cocoon. A restless, anxious pill bug of a cocoon, trying to find a spot on the bed where you’re not painfully aware of Bucky’s presence.

His hands, brushing near your spine when you roll the wrong direction. The steady sound of his breath, that should be calming but only works you up more and more. The line of his jaw when you risk a look, and the flutter of his lashes as he stares at the ceiling. At least he’s not sleeping either. You can be grumpy together, in the morning.

“You’re movin’ too much,” Bucky grunts, and you’re flushing so deeply you’re worried you’re going to light on fire.

“Sorry,” you breathe, and he sighs.

“’S fine.”

You think he might just give up and go back to the couch, but he doesn’t. You consider taking the couch yourself, but you’re stubborn. You asked him to do this, and if you try to go to the couch, Bucky will just throw you back to bed and take the couch himself.

That’s a nice idea. Strong arms wrapped around you, manhandling you, folding you over and tossing you wherever he pleases like a fuckdoll.

You risk another look, and almost whimper.

He’s staring at you in the dark, that strange, hooded look gleaming in his eyes. Your heart pushes into your throat, and your fingers dig into your hips as you hold yourself. Neither of you seem to be able to think of anything to say. Bucky licks his lips again, his eyes darting down to the arch of your neck, and your breath catches. The air seems to be pressing over your skin like a shroud. You’re not sure what to do with yourself but try to breathe.

This must be a dream. Bucky wouldn’t look at you like that during the day. And if it isn’t a dream, he probably doesn’t mean it the way your sleepy, addled brain thinks. He’s always had the same effect on you as a strong drink. Making you a little loose-lipped and foolish and delusional. There’s a reason you don’t go out with him. You’re not trying to ruin the good, steady friendship you’ve had for so long.

“I’m sorry you got stuck with me,” you whisper, and Bucky frowns.

“Stuck with you?”

“On- On the mission.”

His frown deepens. “I’m not stuck with you, that’s-“

He cuts himself off, rolling onto his back with a groan. He runs a hand over his face, and you swallow, pushing up a little to hold his gaze.

“It’s okay, I- I get it-“

“I wasn’t stuck with you,” he cuts you off, tone surprisingly stern. “I mighta been- Harsh,” he lets out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “But listen to me, I’m never- I like havin’ you around, alright? Never stuck with you.”

“But-“

“You matter,” he grunts, staring firmly up at the ceiling. “I don’t like this ‘cause you- You’re not supposed to be in these kinda situations, doll. That’s it. Don’t think it’s anything else.”

“Oh- Okay.” You whisper, and Bucky’s eyes dart to yours.

“Got it?”

You nod, and he sighs, looking back to the ceiling. His arms are still crossed, and he doesn’t look cold, but just lying there without blankets, it can’t be comfortable.

“Bucky?” You say softly, and he grunts. “Do you want the blankets?”

“I’m good-“

“We could share,” you add quickly, and he shoots you an amused look.

“I tried to share. You’re the one who kept yankin’ them away from me.”

You flush, wrinkling your nose. “They’re small-“

“They fit the mattress. Should fit two people.”

“Well, they didn’t think one of those people would be you.”

Bucky raises his brows, and your eyes widen.

“I- I just mean- You- You’re very big, and- I’m smaller- The sheets are smaller, and you’re big-“

“Said I’m big already,” he drawls, and you’re going to smack him.

“Well, you are,” you snap, yanking the sheets fully around you. “And now I’m not sharing. Because you’re being a butt.”

You flip over, burying your face in a pillow when Bucky laughs. It’s a low, deep sound that rolls through your body, almost making you dizzy. You feel the mattress shift behind you, and curl further into yourself.

“Your heart is racing,” he mutters, low and rough, and you’re sure you’re dreaming now.

“Your heart is racing.”

Bucky chuckles again. That’s a dangerous sound. He shouldn’t be allowed to make it.

“You’re bein’ bratty tonight,” he murmurs, a large, light hand tracing over the curve of your hips. “It’s cute.”

You want to roll over and hit him or something. It’s not fair to do that. Not right now, not to you. “James…” You whisper, and he hums.

“Love when say my name like that,” he toys with your hair between, and you bite back a moan. “You know you’re the only one I let say it, right? Only one who could get away with damn near anything ‘round me.”

You make a disgruntled, confused little sound that’s a mix between a moan and whine. You’re really not sure what the fuck is happening, but you’re terrified to ruin it. To move wrong and break from the dream.

“But Christ, doll,” Bucky wraps his hand slowly around the back of your neck, and you can’t stop yourself from leaning back into the touch. “I’m tryin’ real hard to be gentleman, and you’re not making it easy.”

His thumb drags over the base of your hairline, and the mattress dips again. Your breathing becomes shallow, as Bucky leans down. His lips brush near your ear, and you whimper, clinging onto the sheets for dear life.

“I can smell you,” he says, and you’d like the mattress to just swallow you whole. “Can smell how you get fuckin’ wet looking at me, how you gush whenever I touch you,” he squeezes that back of your neck gently. “Tell me to back off. Before I do something real stupid and selfish.”

You roll over slowly, and try not to moan at just the sight of him. Hanging over you in the dark, broad shoulders and parted lips, staring at you like he wants to eat you alive.

“Selfish?” You manage to breathe, reaching up to rest your hand, flat against his burning chest. “James, you’re not-“

“Don’t.” He catches your wrist, but doesn’t push you away. “I want you all to myself. I’d call that selfish.”

You shake your head, your heart pounding your ears. Your nails scrape over his skin, and his whole body almost shudders with restraint. He mutters your name, cupping your cheek, his thumb dragging against your lower lip. 

“Please,” he rasps. “Don’t look at me like that, doll, c’mon-“

“What if I want you to look at me like that,” you whisper, and Bucky’s fingers flex against your jaw. “What- What if I want you too.”

Bucky’s gaze drops back to your lips. His tongue flicks out again, and when he looks at you, you can feel the desperation, tight as a wire between your bodies, begging to be snapped.

You’re not a brave person. You have never been. But under his attention, you feel like you could do anything. You drag your hand over his shoulders, and he shudders. You hold him, trembling with anticipation, and tug him down. He lets you, lowering until your lips are just brushing, his eyes lidded and features blown out.

“You sure?” He mutters, letting out a sharp breath when you nod. “I’m not- One night ain’t gonna be enough-“

“Good,” you whisper, and Bucky groans, fully dropping his brow. “Bucky- Please-“

Bucky kisses you, and you’ve dedicated countless hours to dreaming of this moment. You’ve played it out in a million scenarios, a million different ways, with a million different results. You never dared let yourself think that the reality would be better than the dream, and yet you’re here. And Bucky’s kissing you, and you didn’t know anything could feel so good.

He’s slow. Almost cautious, like he’s trying to test the waters of just how much he’s allowed to take. His lips are chapped and warm, working softly against yours, lighting a little fire with every single, teasing kiss. His tongue brushes over your low lip and you suck in a sharp breath. Bucky hums, pressing a little further down, caging you beneath the mass of his body, trapping you beneath him.

You’re exactly where you want to be. You open your mouth when his tongue presses on your lower lip, tugging gently on his hair to coax him on. He moans down your throat, weaving his fingers into your hair and tugging ever so lightly back. You let him guide you, clinging to his shoulders, getting swept away in the mass of him, the feeling of having him everywhere. His free hand drags down to caress your side, and you arch into the touch with a soft, uncontrolled sound.

Bucky groans, and his kiss gets sloppier. His movements become shorter, his lips demanding against yours. You’re already out of breath, but you don’t dare to push him away. You’ll let him kiss you like this until your head is spinning, until you pass out from the pleasurable, burning ache of his kisses and touches.

“Jesus,” Bucky mutters against your lips, kissing between every word as if he can’t stop himself. “You’re so fuckin’ soft for me, doll, so sweet and easy.”

You whine and Bucky chuckles, kissing you deep and long and so torturously slow. His hand drags further down, tugging the hem of your shirt up. Your legs spread mindlessly, all the thoughts in your head being sucked away by Bucky’s kisses. Cool, metal fingers drag up your sensitive thigh, and you gasp, whole body shivering under the touch.

“You like that, huh,” Bucky kisses one corner of your mouth, then the other. “Tryin’ to take it nice and slow, but you’re already begging for a little, more. Look at you,” he kisses up your cheek, over your jaw. “Gonna take real good care of you, doll. Make it feel real good for my pretty, needy girl.”

Words are already failing you, and you’re getting a little worried for what kind of boneless, fuckdoll puppet you’re going to be when he’s done with you. It’s an electric, hopeful fear. You hope you can feel him when you sit down tomorrow. You hope you can’t walk straight for a fucking week.

Bucky kisses over your nose, then your neglected cheek, and down your jaw. His teeth graze against you, his hand in your hair angling you around so he can suck little bruises right under your jaw. Those thick, metal fingers are still teasing along the inseam over your panties, and when his thumb brushes against the embarrassingly wet spot against your core, he groans against your skin.

“So wet,” he mutters, kissing over the sore mark under your jaw, then attaching his lips near your pulse point. “All for me, isn’t it? Thinkin’ about me fucking you, nice and slow.”

His tongue flicks against your throat, and you make a borderline pathetic noise.

“Bu- Bucky-“ You cry out, wrapping your arms fully around his neck. “Just for you- Only for you- Please-“

Bucky groans, pushing his face further into your neck. His thumb drags back against your clothed slit, teasing the lightest amount of pleasure until you’re clenching around nothing.

“More,” you try to demand, but it’s breathy and broken. “James, I- I need more-“

You roll your hips up, and Bucky’s thumb bumps right up against your clit. Your thighs try to push together and hold him there, but he grabs them forcing them back open and pushing his knee right against your core.

“Demanding,” he presses a quick kiss to your lips then pushes back up, tracing his thumb over the curve of your swollen bottom lip. “You wanna try that one again?”

You swallow and shake your head, trying to push him just a little, just to test what will happen. Bucky’s jaw ticks. He pushes his knee further forward against your cunt, and you cry out, rolling your hips to chase a little extra friction. Bucky lets you, his thumb pushing a little further into your mouth.

He groans when you take him, swirling your tongue and sucking as the need between your thighs builds impossibly high. He keeps hitting against your clit, but not with nearly enough pressure, and he’s planted against your fluttering cunt, but you need him in you. You need to not be able to think, outside of Bucky all around you. If you were stronger, you’d try to pull him back down, but you’re not. You’re  a messy, fluttering mess beneath him, unable to remember how cold it was moments ago as you suck on his thumb like a whore.

Bucky presses on your abdomen, pushing you deeper into the mattress, and you grab his wrist. You give him your best, watering, pathetic eyes. You need more of him the same way you need oxygen. His knee isn’t enough, no amount of him is enough. If you don’t get to drown in the pine scent and massive strength of him, you might start actually screaming.

“Look at you,” Bucky mutters, leaning over your body with a smirk. “So pretty like this, doll. Could drive a man fuckin’ crazy.”

You whimper, eyes dropping to his crotch. To the thick, massive tent pressing against his sweats, and the slightly dark spot against the gray fabric. You moan around his thumb, and watch it twitch slightly. Bucky groans, leaning further down so the head of his cock drags against your soft thigh. He pulls his thumb away, smearing a line of spit over your cheek, then ducks down and lick it away. You moan, turning your face to try and meet his lips, and he chuckles.

“That’s right,” he mutters, indulging you with a slow, gentle kiss. “I know what you need, baby. I’ve got you.”

You hum, eyes fluttering closed and Bucky goes back to kissing you like you’re something priceless. You’re still fucking yourself on his knee, the feeling spreading like a warm, rising tide through your body. Bucky hums, his now free hand slowly dragging under your shirt. Teasing up your side, under your breast, then pinching your nipple between two fingers and rolling it in tight, fast circles.

He swallows the cry that leaves your lips, flicking your nipple before soothing the hurt with his thumb.

“Easy,” he mutters. “Nice and easy. Let’s get you ready, huh?”

You nod, thinking back to that tent in Bucky’s pants. You’re going to need to be ready to take that. And whatever he has to do to get you there, you’re more than willing to let him.

Bucky pulls back up and slowly guides your t-shirt over your head, tossing it off to the side and helping you settle back into the mattress. A low groan rumbles through his chest as his eyes rake over your body, and your arms instinctively go up to cover yourself from the unrelenting, almost feral gaze.

He catches your wrist and pins it over your head, giving you a stern, knowing look.

“Don’t hide,” he scolds, his metal hand slowly trailing down your exposed body. “Most gorgeous fuckin’ girl I’ve ever seen, trying to hide her pretty little body from me.” He grabs your waist, squeezing the soft skin before massaging it, holding your gaze the whole time. “Been driving me made for years, baby. Thinking you were right there and I’d never get to have you like this.” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “Torture. Goddamn torture.”

Your mouth is hanging open, your breaths coming out in short helpless pants. You’re not even really sure what to do with yourself but lay there, and you’d feel worse about that if it didn’t seem to be exactly what Bucky wanted as well.

“Thought about just fuckin’- Living with my face here,” he palms at your breast, the cold of his metal hand a sharp contrast to the fire, brimming under every inch of your skin. “Marking those up until the whole world knew that you were mine. My needy little slut.”

You whimper, and Bucky’s lips twitch.

“Yeah, I know you like that,” he flicks your nipple, watching with dangerous attention as your body seizes up. “Always could smell you gettin’ wet when I’d tell you what to do. Drove me out of my mind, you got no idea.”

You think you’ve got some idea. His grip on your hands is tight like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together, and his every muscle is rippling with restraint. You let out a low, soft whine of his name, and Bucky makes that deep, hungry sound again.

“This pussy,” he mutters, dragging his hands back down your body, cupping your pussy and grinding the palm of his hand against your clit. “It’s mine, isn’t it, doll.”

“Ye- Yes,” you whisper. “It’s yours, James- Please.”

Bucky grins, hooking two metal fingers around the ruined fabric, knuckles bumping against your needy pussy, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Damn right it is.”

He rips your underwear off in one motion, and you don’t even get a second to adjust to the feeling before Bucky’s shoving his ring finger straight into your cunt, pressing his thumb down over your sensitive clit. You make an embarrassingly loud sound, almost bucking off the bed, but the metal hand is impossibly strong. He pushes you back down, crooking his finger deep inside of you, and laughs when your eyes roll back in your head.

“Come on, doll. Eyes on me,” he pumps his finger once, twice, the slaps your sensitive cunt before shoving his hand back in. “Eyes on me.”

You force your eyes to open back up, locking onto his as you try to adjust to the feeling of him inside you. It’s just one finger. One thick, massive, metal finger that you can feel straight through your core and to your toes. The cold makes every sensation starker. Bucky’s forced eye contact makes you feel raw and exposed, like a meal he’s about to savor.

“Good girl,” he coos, pulling that finger almost fully out, swirling his thumb around your clit, and pushing it back in.

“Buckyyyy-“ You moan, lashes fluttering as he bumps right against that gooey spot deep inside of you. “Don’t- Don’t tease-“

“I’m not teasin’,” he leans over you, his hand picking up the pace. “Keep those pretty eyes on me, baby. You can do it.”

You try. God you try. Bucky fucks his finger into you like a machine, reangling his hand so the metal palm is slapping against your clit, working you open more and more and more until you’re whimpering and unravelling beneath him. It’s so overwhelming, you’re almost forgetting to breathe. You strain against his hold on your hands, but it’s hopeless, and you just end up wiggling below him, tits bouncing in his face.

Bucky groans at the sight of you, his hips jerking and cock dragging against your sensitive inner thigh, but he doesn’t slow down or offer you another kiss. He just keeps you pinned beneath him, drawling out praise and mocking words, shoving in a second finger when the first starts to slip in and out too easy.

“Greedy fuckin’ pussy,” he rasps, eyes burning against yours. “Bet my cock is gonna slide right in, doll. Made to take me like the pretty slut you are.”

You moan again, every last bit of dignity slipping through your trapped fingers. The eye contact makes it too intense, and the second finger is bullying you open just right, offering a little extra pressure against your sensitive g-spot. Bucky’s eyes flash, when a tiny, hitched noise leaves your throat, and presses down harder.

“That’s it, isn’t it,” he mutters, watching every twitch of your face, every flutter of your wet lashes like some kind of incubus sex-hawk. “There’s the spot, baby. Feels so good, I know you want to cum.”

You whimper, nodding desperately. Bucky grinds his hard palm against your over-stimulated clit, and your think you’re going to explode.

“It’s alright, babydoll,” he coos. “Let go.”

Your orgasm snaps through you like a rocket, ripping every nerve of your body and making your vision go white. You thrash and scream as you pussy gushes and clenches, your eyes still unable to leave Bucky’s. His jaw is hanging open, his face lust-drunk and predatory, and it just makes your orgasm crest higher. You think he could shove his whole arm in you and you’d be able to take it, with how he’s unraveled.

If the size of his cock in his pants is any indication of what’s coming. That’s for far better than worse.

You’re trembling when you come down, tears streaming down your cheek and broken mewls escaping your lips. Bucky leans down slowly, kissing your cheek, then your closed eyes, then your open mouth.

“You’re doin’ so well, baby,” he murmurs, letting your wrist go so he can cup your jaw. “Gonna fuck you so good, my sweet girl.”

You make a pathetic, eager sound, and Bucky’s faint smile ghosts over your lips. He leans back up, his thumb dragging against a hickey he left on your neck, and his shoulders shake.

“No idea,” he mutters. “No fuckin’ clue what you do to me.”

He pulls a little further back, tugging down his sweats, and you squeak at the sight of him. You didn’t think dicks could actually look like that without steroids or surgery or something. Thick and veiny, a good amount of hair cropped around heavy balls, his thick, angry head twitching as he fists himself and drags his thumb over his slit.

You look up at him, almost drooling. “You- You’re-“

“Big?” He teases, and you try to scowl, but it’s more of a pout.

“Shut up,” you whine, and he laughs, crawling slowly over your limp body.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Bucky leans down, kissing you like you’re not both sex-addled, ruined wrecks of people. It’s the kiss you imagined when he would be a knight, and you’d be a princess, and he’d sweep you off your feet in your dreams. Slow and loving, more of an oath than an act of need. Trying to say things neither of you know how to articulate with words. You reach up, cradling Bucky’s face between your hands, and he lets out a shuddering breath, muttering your name.

“I’m not gonna be gentle,” he warns, and you smile against his lips.

“Yay.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but kisses you again, holding onto that soft, honey-sweet moment. His cock rubs between the lips of your pussy, and your breath catches.

“You’re so big,” you whisper, and it’s not a joke anymore. He’s nudging against your entrance, and a sting is already building back up behind your eyes. 

“I know,” Bucky mutters, kissing away your tears. “But you can take it, doll. Know you can.”

You nod, letting Bucky kiss you into the mattress. He’s holding you down with the weight of his hips, stopping you from squirming or crawling away as he nudges in the first inch.

“Fuuuuck,” he groans. “So tight, doll, shit-“

Another inch, and you’re struggling for air. The stretch burns in the best possible way, making your head spin and your mouth hang, agape and useless. Bucky kisses your open lips like he can’t help himself, and you can feel his control already slipping as he groans, pushing a little more inside.

His thumb fumbles to find your clit, rubbing tight circles, easing you further and further open. Bucky moans when he bottoms out, his whole body tensed as he tries to hold himself still, giving you time to adjust.

Your eyes cross, and your toes curl, and slowly the pain shifts into a warm, desperate pleasure.

“Bu- Bucky-“ You whisper, scratching at his back. “Move, please.”

He grunts, and pulls his hips fully out before driving them slowly back in. You moan, and he grabs your jaw, forcing his mouth back over yours.

“Feel so fuckin’ good,” he grunts against your lips, repeating the long, torturous motion. “Sweet fuckin’ doll, gonna milk this cock, aren’t you. Let me fuck you however I want.”

You mewl and nod, a molten puddle in Bucky’s arms. The sheets are long tossed to the ground, so you grab his bicep, blinking up at him with needy, pathetic doe eyes. Bucky groans, his pace picking up slightly.

“That’s right,” he grunts, finding an angle that makes him bully your g-spot, a rhythm that pushes broken moans out of your throat. “So sensitive, gorgeous when you cry for me, shit-“

Bucky groans, pressing down to kiss you, all bruising force and spit. You let him, unable to think outside of the consuming way he’s around you, the brutal split of his cock inside your abused pussy.

He’s fucking you so that the bed creaks, so that everything feels floaty and light and impossibly good. His abdomen presses against your clit and his dick hits every good spot inside of you, rearranging your guts and turning you into pure putty.  It’s embarrassing, how quickly you’re getting to the edge again. Bucky notices, and doubles down, slamming his hips down just a little harder.

“Like that, baby?” He grunts, watching your slack, cockdrunk expression. “Like bein’ fucked like this? Wanna soak my cock, show me how fuckin’ good it feels?”

You nod, another wrecked noise escaping your throat. Bucky snakes his metal hand between your bodies, rubbing your clit in small, tight circles.

“Again, doll, cum on this dick,” he spanks your clit, then goes back to the circle. “Cum for me-“

You shatter with a cry of Bucky’s name, pussy clenching and fluttering, body arching off the mattress. Bucky groans and doubles over, pressing his face between your breasts and mouthing at them like an animal. Your hands shoot into his hair as you try to hold onto something, your orgasm just cresting higher and higher as Bucky keeps fucking into you. You can feel his cock pulsing inside of you, his shallow thrusts desperate and uncontrolled, his moans vibrating against your skin and making your whole body twitch.

“Bu- Bucky-“ You sob with pleasure, pressing his face further into your body. “Fuck- James- Oh my god-“

Your orgasm doesn’t seem to be settling. It just builds higher and higher as Bucky keeps fucking into you, desperate and rough. You rock beneath him, overstimulated and dazed, and his wraps his mouth around your nipple, sucking hard as his thrusts start to get jagged.

You pet his head with trembling fingers, gasping every word with a hoarse voice. “Come on, James, pleaseee-“

Bucky moans your name, and crashes back up to your lips as he slams home, and cums deep inside your cunt.

There’s so much of him. He kisses you with tongue and long moans, and you’re barely even able to return the affection as he empties himself into your warm cunt. You can feel him in your throat, in the tips of your fingers, almost bursting out of your tummy and seeping through your pussy lips. Bucky fucks you through his orgasm, slower and slower with every thrust, panting against your lips. You clench around him and he buries himself back in with a grunt, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you up into his lap.

You kiss his slowly, everything a little bit of a haze as you finally float back down from your long orgasm. Bucky kisses all over your face as the last of him spills inside of you, then presses his face against your neck, letting out a shaky breath.

His tongue flicks against another one of those bruises he left, and you shiver.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, and you hum, leaning your cheek against the side of his head.

“’S okay.”

Bucky sighs, leaning back to meet your hooded, starry eyes. You’ve never been so exhausted, but fuck, you don’t care. You’ve also never felt so close to someone. To Bucky. You never want to let go.

“That’s gonna hurt in the morning,” he mutters, and you’re not even sure which part he’s talking about, but it doesn’t matter, so you just shrug.

“Worth it.”

Bucky swallows, glancing down at your lips. Like he’s suddenly not allowed to just kiss you.

You lean forward for him, and he immediately melts over you. You smile into the kiss, curling into his chest, and he lets out a low, rough groan. You should probably get off the bed soon. Neither of you are going to be able to sleep in it now. But you really don’t care. If you could, you’d just stay here forever.

Bucky leans back, tracing his thumb over the corner of your mouth. He’s looking at you like you’re a dream. You hope he thinks you’re looking at him the same way.

“Might be a little late,” he rasps. “But can I get you dinner?”

You giggle, and nod. Bucky’s shoulders sag.

“Thank god,” he mutters, leaning back in for another kiss. “Got no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this, doll. Really.”

You hum, and just kiss him back. You’ll show him that you know exactly how long later, because you’ve been waiting even longer. For now, you just let him kiss you. You’re going to have all the time in the world, to ruin other beds. You don’t want to waste a single second of his heat and ease in this one. Finally, in Bucky’s arms.

✦End note: it can't believe i've never done this trope before it's amazing i love it here✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

The mattress creaks and the frame knocks into the wall, chipping the paint, denting the wood where the two meet.

Forehead to forehead, sweat accumulating with torrid breaths and aching muscles, Bucky's hips caught to yours. Pressing, slamming, holding down as he clenches his glutes and humps, elongating the pleasure, taunting.

But the light chime of his tags kept ringing. They keep batting across your chest, cold and moist, patting your chin and dragging across your skin when you were right there.

It was just as your legs fell open, knees laying up as his dick dragged in and out, and he willed his noises to stay at a minimum, when the tags flittered to the dip of your neck. Your lips parted, sighing, rolling your eyes as it tap tap tap's and sings against your hot skin. You move, careful not to ruin the precision, pressing the chain against his peck, holding them firm to his chest.

At first, Bucky almost sat up, almost paused to ask if you were okay — pushing at his sternum, brows taut and eyes glassy, whining with every breath. Instead he pushed deeper, metal fingers drawing up your body until they held your jaw, squeezing your cheeks, making you look into his eyes.

"What's the matter?" His breath sticks to your face, bumping his nose to yours. "Pushin' me away? C'mon, speak to me."

You can't. That's the problem. It feels like with each pull and push, each pulse around his cock, and every kiss his tip grants your cervix, he drives all linguistic knowledge out of your brain, spilling it from your lips in garbled nonsense and breathy moans.

A whiney hum spills out as you tighten your lips into a line, keeping your jaw firm. You lean back into the pillow, shutting your eyes trying to find any semblance of words, but his hips keep moving. Slower now, yet still as effective, still holding you rigid and perfectly, and tauntingly precise. Rutting the length of himself inside of you while the fuzz of hair that littered the base kept grazing your clit. It isn't until one hand claws at the meat of his shoulder, and the other, the hand that pushed at the chain, leaving tiny dents in it's wake, fisted at the metal.

It clinks as the tags stay dangling from your palm, bumping to and fro.

"Oh, sweetheart," Bucky soothes, the warm metal of his thumb strokes against your bottom lip, slicked with spit and salty with sweat. "We're they botherin' you?"

You nod quickly, leaving a sharp smile on his face, dipping down to leave gentle kisses against your jaw.

"My smart girl," you keen into the praise, leaning deeper into his hand, letting his voice rasp and vibrate into your skin, leaving more room for him to lick and kiss. "Thought you wanted me to stop."

Ardently, you shake your head, ruffling your hair into the pillow behind you.

"No, no stopping. 'M not gonna stop." And he doesn't. His flesh hand replaces your own around the tags and he slots them between his teeth.

Salt and iron cover his tongue, sweat that had dripped from his down body, and your own that had mixed in as it had laid against your own skin, or tapped annoyingly your neck. It makes a dull sound as they sat firmly between his teeth, braced to the side, just where his molars start and his canines dig into the printed letters of his name.

It shouldn't be hot.

The sight of his mouth full, his teeth bared, carrying something precious with an iron grip of his jaw, made your walls pulse. You almost wanted to swap it out, to reach up and take the tags in your own mouth, enveloped in the debauched taste of century old metal, skin and spit.

But its hedonic. You love how he looks. Skin slick, chest heaving, drool already pooling at the edges of the tags, at the corner of his mouth right where his lips met. Animalistic in a way.

"There we go, there we go," his speech muffled, yet still affirmative and firm as he brings back the pace. Making your head drop back and mouth hang open on a gasp, arching your back. The warmth of his palm glides up your torso, leaving goosebumps as he drags up and down, before pulling your leg up by the thigh to latch onto his waist and holding you firmly at the hip. All while holding himself up on his forearm, vibranium fingers holding the top of your head reassuringly, grazing his thumb on your hairline.

He hums, unable to speak with his mouth full, unable to gather the spit about to fall. Your hands claw at the contorting muscles of his shoulder blades, moving to capture his hair between your fingers.

The tug you force has him stuttering, hips pressing to your own, the hair surrounding his base tickles again, right against your nub.

"Oh—fuck," you breathe out, jaw slack and tight all at once, the light feeling of release easing up your back as your thighs begin to tingle and tremble around his torso. "Bucky… Bucky, please."

The rivulets of spit drop, coating your neck and chin, and he follows them down until his hot, wet breath finds your temple. His chest caves with each inhale, keeping his hips up, holding down the pace that has you throbbing up his shaft, your nails digging into his shoulder and thighs shaking. He can feel the ring around the root of him, creamy and white, mixed in with the dark patch of hair.

The tags tinkle dully, let go from the cell of his teeth to lay wet next to your neck. You pay no mind to the slurping sound of him gathering spit from his lips; only staying in the blissed out haze of Bucky's body atop of yours and his pretty cock slapping in and out of you.

"C'mon, c'mon…" he repeats like a mantra, whispering under his breath, heated on the shell of your ear. "You got it, fuck, you feel so good. Wanna cum—cum inside of you, wanna push it in deep, n'keep fuckin' it in… Please, please, please…"

As your nails print crescents into his skin, your mouth holds a jumble of 'yes's to his shoulder. Balm and torrid to the meat of his shoulder, your body locks and a sweet ache begins to release around the stretch of him. Your lips press to his collarbone, muffling the shudders and whines and gasps that release as he fucks you through it, wet slaps and mumbled grunts chorusing together while you jolt and pulse.

It isn't long until he follows through, finishing deep inside, pressing and holding himself as his cock twitches with each spurt of cum. As if awoken from his daze, he keeps his hips moving.

Splatterings of white coat both of your pelvises and thighs, shuddering with overstimulation, muscles limp from overexertion, eyes half lidded and lips parted and red.

Bucky slowed himself as your jerking lessened and your teeth bared to hiss at the mild pain, and his dick softened. He watched, holding himself up with his knuckles to the pillow, guiding the softer limb to stay inside of your full warmth, uncaring about the mess that now coats his fingers — absentmindedly licking them off like candy residue.

Sighs and soft groans alike leave you both as he slips out. Your nails caress his torso, gliding gently up the red marks you printed on his back, down to the sensitive muscles of his ass, making him twitch and press his hips to yours again with a stifled laugh to your jaw.

"Careful, might get hard again before I can clean you up." He kisses and breathes you in, holding you into his body as your fingers hold their gentle rhythm.

You huff a lazy version of a laugh, nosing against the sweet smell of sweat where his neck meets his shoulder.

"Oh no, how awful," You croak sarcastically. The weakness in your voice makes you both laugh fully, rumbling chests pressed against one another, cheeks tight with smiles, and eyes watching with warm fragments. After a short moment of silence, of lungs catching up, you follow down the column of his neck to where his dog tags laid lopsided on your chest, and hummed. "I liked that thing you did."

"'That thing'?" He pressed, smirking, lowering his voice. "I've got many things goin' for me, sweetheart, be specific."

Another laugh breaks, crinkling your eyes at the corners, playfully pushing at his chest.

"That dog tag thing, you know, putting them in your mouth."

"You liked that?"

You nodded, fervently. "Uh-huh. Very much."

His lips move into a soft smile, catching the slick metal cards between his fingers to bring them up.

"That so?" He teases quietly, dragging them across your bottom lip, leaving the dewy residue to sit, sliding them just between the seam of your lips only to jut it out with a pop. "Maybe next time you can hold them for me?"

With your tongue poking out, you get a taste of the flavour that pooled alongside Bucky's own tongue. Musky and sour, tangy with body heat. And with a soft press on your thigh, you know that you're under a limit.

"Next time meaning five minutes?" You prod, tilting your head innocently. "Haven't even gotten cleaned up and it seems like little Sergeant Barnes is reporting for duty."

With a tut, he holds your chin, shaking his head. "Nuh-uh, fuck that and your smart mouth. Open wide, hold tight."

You obey and bite down as he slots the tags between your teeth, tugging at the chain twice to test out your grip. You scrunch your nose and furrow your brows, playfully pulling back at the chain. The grotesque brackishness of the tester you got grips you fully and drips down your throat.

"'Little Sergeant Barnes'," he repeats, sitting up as far as he could to grab ahold on himself. Sticky, wet and just as hard as before. He strokes himself, groaning as he fists tighter at his ruddy tip, coaxing a pearl of precum. Defiantly, he taps his heaviness on your clit. "Keep that up and making sure every inch of you aches with me the next day, understood?"

A giggle bubbles up before you could force it down. He slaps his cock against your clit again, holding and coating it down and between your lips, still creamy and dripping his own release, bullying your button with his tip. Your whine is muffled between your teeth as you bear them down.

"Understood?" He pushes, voice firmer, harsher, and you nod, heart racing, ribs already quivering. The sounds of your joint bodies squelch louder and louder, as your head lays dizzier and dizzier, but his voice whispers so soft and the way he terrorises and hounds your insides brings stars to the corners of your eyes.

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